


Home Is Where Your Heart Is

by kamawe



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Sheriff Stilinski, BAMF Stiles, F/M, Jealous Derek, M/M, Magical Artifacts, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Manipulation, Past Stiles Stilinski/Malia Tate, Protective Derek, Returning Home, Secret Organizations, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Comes Back
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-22 11:29:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6077673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kamawe/pseuds/kamawe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What was it that Master had said before Stiles set off for his journey?</p><p> </p><p>  <i>'Focus on the plan. Don't get distracted. Don't trust them.'</i></p><p> </p><p>...</p><p>He raises his eyes to meet John's. He thinks he remembers him, from before it all went to hell. When he was a kid, he remembers riding a bike and falling. This man ran to him and blew over the bruise. His eyes were full of life, with tiny laugh lines around, the color of calm ocean blending into the blue of sky. They rolled in exasperation when Stiles overplayed his pain and complained theatrically to get more attention.</p><p>Those same eyes seem dull now.</p><p>"Yeah, sure," he says automatically. "'Course I'm gonna stay, Sheriff. It's why I'm here, isn't it?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**NOW**

Stiles arrives in Beacon Hills at the end of October, when temperatures could barely rise above 50°F. The winter is stretching out its limbs as it slowly wakes up from a long deep slumber, and envelopes the small town. Bare branches are just beginning to peek through patches of scarlet and gold leaves. Stiles had traveled all day, and when he finally sets foot across the town’s border, the sun is beginning to set on the horizon, filling the sky with an orange hue and dragging with it the last bits of warmth kicking and screaming. 

He hides his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, his breath puffing out in front of his lips in a white trail. The spark fluttering feebly inside his chest is a tiny source of heat, but it's too small and hasn't matured enough to completely protect his body from the cold. So with a mental picture of himself sipping a cocktail on a sunny beach in Miami, Stiles does the only thing he can; he picks up the pace. 

He opts to avoid the busier streets and walks through alleys and backstreets before he finds himself at the gate of a park. Supposedly, this would be the quickest way to get to his destination. He looks up at the corroded sign above the entrance, reading WELCOME TO LAKE PARK. Yep, he’s on the right track. 

He startles a bit when a little girl whooshes past him, giggling loudly as a boy chases her with outspread arms. They both ignore the shouts of their grandmother who's next to pass by Stiles, hurrying to catch up with the kids, but at a considerably slower pace due to her age. Stiles turns to watch them with amusement. The kids allow their grandmother to reach them eventually, and the last thing he sees before they turn the corner is her waving arms as she scolds the kids. 

For a second, he almost forgets why he’s in the town, but his peaceful moment of obliviousness quickly vanishes when he enters through the gate. The park is empty and quiet, and he finds nothing to distract him from the knowledge that in only a couple of minutes, he will arrive _there_.

The backpack Stiles is carrying becomes a heavy weight on his shoulders despite the few things that are inside. He didn't pack much, preferring to travel lightly. Still, he can feel the straps of the backpack digging into his shoulders like there are bricks stuffed inside. Leaves crunch under his leather combat boots, grass rustles in the cold breeze. These sounds were deafening in the stillness of the park. With each step he takes, the _thumps_ grow louder and the backpack even heavier.

What was it that Master had said before Stiles set off for his journey?

_'Focus on the plan. Don't get distracted. Don't trust them.'_

He repeats these three simple sentences like a mantra to divert his mind from the ghostly park and to focus on anything other than what he's about to face. By the time he left the park, cold has crept under his clothes, spreading goose bumps across his skin. A knot of anxiety forms in the pit of his stomach.

He turns right, walking down the road which leads him through the maze of essentially identical suburban streets lined with family houses, and slowly, like in a dream, Stiles comes to a realization that he's stopped following the directions he read up from the maps a while ago, and turns left and right automatically, without thinking. It's as if his traitorous mind chooses this moment to awaken after years of hiding in thick fog, just to have a laugh at him. 

Once he sees the fairly average-looking house (same as the rest of the houses on this street and yet so completely different), his heartbeat spikes up. He's used to it by now, though. It's the adrenaline, the tension, because first impressions are the most important thing in the world right now. When the man who's lived inside this house alone for the past seven years opens the door, Stiles must become the best Oscar-winning actor. Better than Tom Hanks in Forrest Gump. Better than Jodie Foster in The Silence of the Lambs.

But Stiles knows every step by heart. He still wonders, though, if this assignment will be harder or easier than the others. Before, he always got to become someone else: a rich kid looking for a way to escape boredom in a witch's coven, a homeless boy accepting shelter from a shapeshifting killer. Stiles has a natural talent when it comes to submerging into the psyches of made-up people. He's the director, screenwriter and producer in one; creating his own stories and breathing life into them. It’s fun.

The problem is that this job is different, and he still can't get a handle on his approach.

He hums the closing credits theme for the Academy Awards as he makes the last steps over the driveway which separates him from the house and comes to a halt on the front porch. This job will get to him, he knows that, but it needs to be done. They can finally take a rest after this. That's all he cares about.

He momentarily closes his eyes to calm his heartbeat, and prays that it will be easier rather than harder to get into this character. His numb fingers hurt when he knocks on the unyielding wood. He quickly sticks them back into his pockets and waits, holding his breath.

"Coming!" a deep, male voice shouts from inside. He sounds irritated, probably has to get up from a couch or something, torn away from a book or TV turned on for the evening news.

For a crazy second, Stiles debates whether or not to turn tail and run. But that would mean disappointing the one person he's sworn never to let down. He has to do this. He can do this. He's practiced for this moment repeatedly over the past couple weeks. Master assured him he's ready.

Then why is it that his mind feels suddenly blank?

He takes a small step back when the door jerks wide open, and a man dressed in sweatpants and a dirty washed-out t-shirt snarls, “What?” Stiles juts his chin out in a display of defiance and waits to see if the man figures it out on his own.

What follows is silence. As the man (name is John Stilinski, Sheriff of Beacon Hills, widower, living alone) gets a proper look at Stiles, his expression goes from annoyed to confused to dumb-struck. He stares at Stiles for what feels like hours. Stiles tries hard not to fidget. He seizes the opportunity to study the man in front of him. He looks like the world pushed him down one too many times, and he's given up trying to stand back up again. His eyes look old, marred by worry lines and weariness. He holds a bottle of Jack in his left hand, and it's such a fucking cliché when the bottle slips from his fingers and the amber liquid spills over their feet.

 

**THEN**

He runs through the deserted streets, heavy steps pounding the asphalt. Lungs on fire, his breath sounds like thunder in his ears. It's so dark he can't see farther than two steps ahead. One of the five strings wound around his wrist heats up and breaks into dust. It's trying to remind him something, but he can't focus long enough to remember what. 

Sweat trickles down his brow, stinging his eyes. He speeds up. There are no sounds of footsteps chasing him but he knows, for sure, the creature is directly behind him. It noiselessly slides through the night, merging with shadows and reaching out its long claws to sink into his fragile human flesh.

"Come, sweet little boy, come play with me," its voice sing-songs. The wind picks up and cocoons his clammy skin in soft whispers. 

His feet slip outwards on the dirt when he rounds a corner. He comes to a stop, panting heavily. His head tilts back as he stares up. The abandoned factory towers over him like a haunting dream. The windows are grey with dirt, ivy vines cling to the high walls. An echo of high-pitched laughter from inside the building flies to him on a gust of wind, startling a sleek, brown, rat out from its hiding behind a moldy crate. It makes a beeline alongside the wall, beady eyes briefly flickering to him before it squeaks and vanishes inside through the open doors.

He's startled out of his stupor when another one of the strings around his wrist heats up and falls apart, this time leaving a mild pain of burned flesh in its wake. A thought nudges at the back of his mind but he doesn't have time to dwell on it. The shadows brush his feet, sending shivers up his spine. 

He runs through the doors into the building's bowels. For some reason it seems like a good idea. The creature breezes in, sending a vortex of dust into the air. 

"Don't run from me, little boy. Come and play." It sounds hurt, like it doesn't understand why he's being so difficult.

He sneezes as the dust tickles his nose, and continues running. Running for his life; past more moldy crates, toppled metal tables, decomposing cardboard boxes. He trips but catches himself on the production line before jumping over it. He lands on his tired feet and crouches down. Looking around the dark abandoned place, a thought tickles at the back of his brain again. Was he here before? His hand slides over the dirty ground, and grey particles coat his fingers. 

He gets up and sprints to the back of the factory, even though he has no way to escape from there. Between the wall covered in graffiti and the creature closing in on him, he is trapped like a scared rabbit. Bracing his hands on his knees, he sucks in huge gulps of musty air. He turns around when a soft breeze, sounding much like a smug snort, licks the nape of his neck. The creature delights in his desperation. It feeds on it. 

It's all black, edges impossible to define as they blend in with the shadows. It takes in the gloom and wears it like a coat. It moves towards him, slowly, like it has all the time in the world. It probably thinks it does.

The third string around his wrists heats up with a scorching pain and disintegrates. A memory comes to him.

“You don't want to play with me, little boy?” the creature asks, its velvety voice pouring out of every pore and bouncing off the walls.

“I'm not a little boy,” he says, throat dry and voice hoarse.

It chuckles, a hissing sound taking a long time to die. ”What shall I call you then?”

He squares his shoulders. “Stiles.”

The dark spreads and starts to contract and twist, taking on a tall form. No curves, no outlines, it looks like a blurred shadow of a huge man, but at least now Stiles has somewhere to focus his eyes on. “You are a wraith. You feed on despair,” he says, words coming to him reluctantly and not without a fight. “In the past month, you’ve possessed the minds of five people, from whom two were children aged ten and twelve.”

The tall form slides closer. It doesn't lash out; maybe he's caught its interest.

“Four of those people, including twelve-year-old Nathan, have been admitted to the hospital with severe brain damage caused by chemical disruptions, which doctors claim to be caused by a rare genetic brain disorder.”

The fourth string burns a line into his wrist before falling to dust. Stiles closes his eyes under the onslaught of memories, and backs until he hits the wall. The wraith is nothing like the others, it doesn't deny or brag. It stays silent, the only indication that it's listening is by the forward bend in Stiles' direction. He continues, “My master and I were able to identify you as the culprit due to abnormally increased levels of cortisol and practically nonexistent levels of serotonin in their toxicology results.”

“Wrong.”

Stiles tilts his head. 

“There were seven, not five. Two died.”

He grits his teeth. Wraiths are spirits of dead people who got lost amongst the living for one reason or another. They've never found a way out and after centuries, their souls bastardized until they became this; a parody of night terrors, a parasite in human minds when they were at their weakest.

The wraith moves forward. “STOP!” Stiles yells, eyes flashing angrily. “I'm not finished.” The wraith comes to an abrupt halt, and if it had a face, Stiles is sure its eyes would be wide with surprise. “You feed on minds when they're defenseless, when they are asleep.”

The last string wound around his wrist burns bright yellow and disperses with a hiss. It hurts like hell. In the distance he can hear Master's firm voice. The blurred, dark corners of the factory begin to form shapes, and the production line shrinks until it's as small as a night stand. Stiles' mouth morphs into a smirk. “You choose people who are closest to your location and with a defect that makes them ideal victims. In my case, ADHD and a possibility of future dementia makes me somewhat of a catnip for your kind. You strike in stages three and four of sleep, also known as deep sleep, when the victims are unable to fight you.” He raises his hand. Five lines are burned into his skin, from a thin one to the last thickest line, looking ugly and raw. “Right now I'm doing something called lucid dreaming. Do you know what that means?”

The grey, dusty particles rise high from the ground, and with a furious swoosh fall into a circle around the wraith.

“From this point it's officially my dream–my rules, bitch.”

The wraith is very still for a long time. Stiles goes back in his mind through all the precautions he and his Master have done, so nothing would go wrong. He can't think of anything they missed. Stiles' mind is half awake and arising the magic within him. His will is stronger than the creature. The thing is trapped without a way to escape. 

"Who are you?" it asks.

Stiles approaches the barrier. The tips of his sneakers touch the grey ring of dust. From this close he'd be able to see every crease of the wraith's body, if it had any. In books, he read that looking at a wraith from such a close proximity is like staring down a well full of a person’s darkest thoughts and desires. And Stiles has enough of those to have a chill run down his spine. He makes good on staying still, though. Feel what you want but never let those emotions be visible, that was Master's first lesson. 

"You know how you think that since you're the monster under the bed, you don't have any? Well, dude. You're wrong. I'm the monster under your bed."

He lets out a gasp when the wraith shoots forward like a bullet only to be stopped by the protection barrier with a loud snap. It seems to be enough to make the wraith realize this is the end, so Stiles stays where he is, not about to back down from something that is restrained and can't hurt him.

"What about yours?" 

"Mine what?" he asks in confusion.

The wraith chuckles, the eerie sound bouncing off the walls unlike anything Stiles has ever heard. It makes him take a step back, then. 

"You say everyone has their monsters... Even you, little one?"

 

**NOW**

Once the shock wears off, John surges forward, and before Stiles can react, he has the man clinging to him like an octopus in an uncoordinated heap of limbs. John buries his face in his neck, body shaking with silent sobs. He's squeezing the life out of Stiles, who just stands there in the doorway, hands slipping out of his pockets to fall uselessly at his sides. Out of the countless possibilities that entered his mind as to how this reunion would go, this was not one of them.

“Stiles–It's you, isn't it? My Stiles. My boy. You're so tall. But it's you. It's you… " 

John draws back just as suddenly as he had surged forward. He holds Stiles by his shoulders at arm's length, watery eyes sweeping over him up and down as if trying to drink up every little detail. “I don't… I don't understand, Stiles.” He looks shaken to his core, utterly broken.

Stiles steps over the spilled bottle of Jack, the Sheriff's hands unwillingly falling off his shoulders, and invites himself into the house when it looks like no one else will do it for him. The entrance hall is brightly lit but far from welcoming. The walls are bare of pictures or photos, only two jackets hanging on the coat rack, accompanied by two pairs of shoes neatly piled underneath. It looks like the hallway serves as a passage between the outside and inside and nothing more. Stiles doesn't waste any time here, and enters the first door to the left, into the only other lit room.

Walking across the living room feels like moving underwater, his feet heavy and uncooperative. Stiles half expects someone to jump at him or a memory to suddenly pop up in his brain. Nothing comes and it leaves him feeling empty and disappointed. The Sheriff hovers in uncertainty around him, looking so damn lost and watching Stiles like he's the one who has answers to how the world functions.

Stiles sits down on the suede couch for a lack of ideas of what else to do, shrugging off his backpack and laying it next to his legs. He runs his fingers over the soft fabric, waiting for John to join him. The Sheriff does, eventually, though it takes him an agonizingly long time to move. He sits next to Stiles and folds his hands on his knees. He keeps staring. 

“So…”

Stiles has experienced his own share of uncomfortable moments but this one is so far the worst. He opens his mouth to continue, to say something, anything, when a booming cheer makes them startle as a particularly loud commercial comes on the flat screen TV taking up half the wall in front of the couch. John reaches for the TV remote on the coffee table without any resemblance of coordination left in his bones, and knocks over an empty beer bottle, sending it rolling over the edge of the table. He cuts off the toothpaste commercial while an artificial actress is giving the viewers a fake blinding smile. 

There's a beat of silence and then Stiles says the first thing that comes to his mind. "You shouldn't drink so much, Sheriff."

John puts the remote down while his eyes bore holes into Stiles' face. A tear trickles down his cheek, and then–

Then he's laughing. A hysterical laughter bubbles from his throat, merging with the fat salty tears rolling from his eyes. They both are caught off guard, and Stiles just stupidly sits on the couch, watching with wide eyes as the Sheriff hunches over, body shaking with tremors that scare Stiles with their intensity.

"I'm–I'm sorry, kid,” John heaves. Stiles furrows his brows as he tries to concentrate on the words, to catch all of them. Has John just apologized to him? Maybe he didn't hear well. “I just wasn't prepared for…”

“For me appearing out of nowhere after seven years?”

John's face takes on an expression of pain, like he's just been sucker punched. “Yes...”

Does the man think he's dreaming or having hallucinations? This must be bizarre to him, though probably not as bizarre as it is for Stiles, he's sure.

“I won't touch any liquor again,” John says. “I promise. I'll do anything, Stiles, if you... you are staying, right?"

It takes a moment for Stiles to understand that he was asked a question. He raises his eyes to meet John's. He thinks he remembers him, from before it all went to hell. When he was a kid, he remembers riding a bike and falling. This man ran to him and blew over the bruise. His eyes were full of life, with tiny laugh lines around, the color of calm ocean blending into the blue of sky. They rolled in exasperation when Stiles overplayed his pain and complained theatrically to get more attention. 

Those same eyes seem dull now.

"Yeah, sure," he says automatically. "'Course I'm gonna stay, Sheriff. It's why I'm here, isn't it?"

More tears slide down. John's face remains screwed up in that ugly grimace of pain. Stiles wonders if he should be crying too, for the sake of keeping in character. On the other hand, there is really no character to imitate. He's not the small kid anymore, and the Sheriff doesn't know what Stiles has been through and how he'll react in certain situations. So he stays quiet and waits for John to calm down on his own. At least the man isn't trying to hug him again, that's a bit of a relief.

John blinks his eyes into focus, furrowed frown-marks between his eyebrows. He seems to be expecting Stiles to do something, possibly explain where he's been all those years. Stiles cocks his head to the side and keeps his jaw stubbornly clenched. If the man wants to know something, he ought to ask. Stiles is not about to give himself away when he doesn't necessarily need to.

John shakes his head and chuckles humorlessly, a deep, bass sound jangling Stiles' nerves. He points at him, and Stiles glares at the offending finger. When John abruptly stands up, Stiles' eyes shoot up curiously, wondering what the Sheriff plans on doing. 

John snitches his phone from the coffee table, barely avoiding knocking over the second empty beer bottle, and starts to back out of the living room, step by slow step. "I can't–I can't do this alone. I have to... to call Melissa. Do you remember Melissa? And Scott? Do you remember Scott?"

When Stiles doesn't respond and refuses to summon even the smallest hint of emotion to his carefully blank features, the Sheriff runs his hand over his face. In his other, he grips the phone like it's his lifeline. "It doesn't matter. Just please, please stay here. I feel a bit dizzy and I think I need her help. She was... she helped me a lot when you–and before when your–"

Stiles kind of wants to tell him to shut the fuck up, but thankfully John reaches the hall and vanishes behind the corner. It's a beat of silence and then–

"Melissa? Oh my God, Melissa, it's him! It's my Stiles… I couldn't believe my eyes when he just–What? No, I don't know how. And I have no idea what to do, he's so... You know I've never stopped hoping. You know that. But he's here, all of a sudden, and– I don't know what to do..."

Stiles lets the Sheriff's voice wash over him. He hopes that John will hold to his word and stop drinking. It seems to confuse him that he can't even produce the simplest sentences. Or maybe it's the fact that out of nowhere, his lost boy appeared after seven years on his doorstep? It doesn't matter in the end. John should stop drinking either way.

With the man gone, Stiles allows his guard to slip a touch. He leans back into the soft cushions, and while nibbling on his thumbnail, his eyes graze over the rest of the room. The knot of anxiety in his stomach is still very much present so he appreciates it when a bunch of photographs on a bookshelf catch his attention, giving him a target to focus on. 

Walking over, he picks up one that captivates him the most. It's a collective family photo of John, Stiles' mother and of Stiles (because it's really him, tinier and ganglier, but it's him and there's no denying that). They're standing in the park Stiles walked through only an hour ago, all of them grinning madly at whoever is standing behind the objective. Stiles bites down on the inside of his cheek as his gaze slides over the moment that happened such a long time ago. These strange people in the photo are far from what they have become today, with one of them long dead, and it makes Stiles feel like an intruder to the life of a different family; happy, carefree, naive people who know nothing when it comes to the real world. He tries to connect to the past moment and link himself to the little boy in the photo, but it proves an impossible task. 

"Stiles?"

Stiles snaps his head up. The Sheriff stands behind the couch, the phone clutched in his hand. His eyes fall down to the photograph Stiles is holding. "I'm sorry... I didn't want to disturb you."

Stiles puts the photograph back on the shelf, feeling his features lock back into an expressionless mask. After a moment of silence, John clears his throat awkwardly. "Do you want something? To drink or eat, I mean?"

“No."

The Sheriff laughs curtly. Stiles glowers at him. "Sorry," the man says. "It's just–you never stopped talking before, you know. It's strange... not bad strange," he adds hastily, when Stiles' expression darkens. "Just... different."

But Stiles speaks. Oh boy, does he speak. In fact, he has troubles shutting up. It's the ADHD. His thoughts are scattered all over the place, enabling him to jump from one topic to another in lightning speed. It may be irritating to other people, but his Master says it's partially why he's learned magic so efficiently. Because when something does spark his interest, he's not about to let go until he's mastered it. Magic is the only thing besides his Master that has never betrayed him, and the single most interesting topic of practice Stiles' mind has ever dealt with. It's also difficult beyond words, which makes it a perfect subject to immerse himself in for endless hours.

So yes, Stiles has ADHD and yes, his mouth is often like an uncontrollable bullet. The problem which John doesn't seem to realize is that Stiles doesn't talk to people who mean nothing to him.

_'Focus on the plan,'_ the voice in his head whispers.

"It's just overwhelming," Stiles says. "Sorry, Sheriff."

The man's face crumples. "I'm your dad, Stiles."

_'Don't get distracted.'_

"I'm aware of that, Sheriff."

John crosses his arms over his chest as if to protect himself from the blitz of cutting words. He tries to maintain his smile, though. "Why don't we… We can go sit in the kitchen if you don't mind. I could eat something."

He spins on his heels and leaves the living room without a second glance. Stiles grabs his backpack from the floor and follows the man through the unimpressively bleach hallway. He sits at the dining table with the backpack safely at his feet, and watches as John's hands keep trembling while he's maneuvering around the kitchen counter. The fridge is empty when he opens it; the only occupants are take-out boxes, a six pack of beer and the top shelf overflowing with meatloaf, bacon slices, hams and sausages. If Stiles cared, he would wince at the utter lack of a healthy diet.

John takes out packs of ham and bacon slices and a half-empty jar of mayonnaise. Stiles scrunches up his nose in disgust while he watches John pile everything between two slices of bread, adding a slice of cheddar for effect. Why someone is willing to invest in a massive TV screen instead of buying decent food is beyond him. Master isn't a health freak by any means, but he did do Stiles a favor and taught him how to prepare a proper meal and thus not die from a heart attack. 

John makes more of these offenses to sandwiches and, to Stiles' horror, places a plate with two of them in front of him.

"I told you I don't want–"

"I know," the Sheriff cuts him off. "But you should eat anyway."

He eyes Stiles' thin wrists and prominent cheekbones, like they're signs of Stiles starving himself to death. It makes him feel deeply offended. He looks good, he knows it. And he had to be a bit underweighted when he spent last summer sleeping rough to finish his last assignment. And even though he is a bit hungry, he fairly doubts this poor excuse of food will help him in any case. 

John sits down opposite him with his own plate of doom and waits for Stiles to start eating first. Stiles is about to dramatically shove the plate off the table when he reconsiders the consequences. If he does that, John will only be pissed or disappointed and could become difficult to deal with in the future. If Stiles cooperates and gives him this little treat, John will be much more pliable and easier to handle.

Decision made, he takes the sandwich in his hands and bites down, trying hard not to grimace at the mayonnaise overkill. John watches him eat in silence, forgetting about his portion entirely, which makes it harder for Stiles to keep up his poker face. Trying to divert the attention from himself, he raises his pierced eyebrow at the man, whose eyes inevitably stray to the small circle. It's a concoction of silver mixed with herbs, specially made for Stiles to serve as a part of his best spell. Every piece of metal on Stiles is made of this mix; from this piercing to the two rings on his fingers and chains hanging from his belt loops. Only the wristband is made from leather. It was a gift from Master.

"What happened, Stiles?" John asks. For the first time, his face loses its shattered misery. A determined, analytical expression creeps into his eyes, a mixture Stiles has seen in many interrogation rooms.

Stiles puts the sandwich aside. He and Master have gone through every possible question beforehand, but he still needs to sell his performance. So he pauses, just briefly to simulate the reluctance and defiance seen in kids living on their own for a long time. “I was lost,” he says airily.

John leans forward, prepared to wade into things he doesn't and never will fully understand. “Stiles. I can't help you if you don't tell me."

 _'You should help yourself first,'_ Stiles wants to retort, but the doorbell rings, saving them the awkward moment of silence which would have accompanied that outburst.

John sighs. "Wait here." He goes to answer the door. 

What follows is a confusing couple of seconds, when in a rush two newcomers appear in the kitchen, culminating with one of them jumping at Stiles and hugging the sweet life out of him. The person should be glad Stiles is generally cool-headed or otherwise they would have a broken arm.

"Oh my God, Stiles!" 

The person crushing him in embrace turns out to be Scott. Stiles recalls a minimum about his mom, and he remembers even less about John, but he remembers everything about Scott. He remembers how they met, how different they both were from the other children. How Scott stood up with him against the bullies and how Stiles did the same for Scott. It was them against the world. He remembers how they played cops and robbers, and how Stiles won every time because Scott had asthma and wasn't able to run as fast.

Scott was his best friend. A human best friend. But now, judging by how Stiles' magic thrums under his skin and by the strength with which Scott hugs him without giving a second thought to keeping his secret identity a secret, Stiles can tell the difference instantly. Scott is a werewolf now. Silly little Scott from the sandbox is a monster.

Over Scott's shoulder, Stiles sees a woman stand beside the Sheriff. He supposes it's Melissa. She's smiling but her eyes are studying, guarded, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Stiles mostly forgot about her, but what he does think he remembers is that she always was a smart woman.

"Hey, Mrs. McCall."

"You remember me," she says coolly. It's not a question.

Stiles decides to go for honesty. "I remember some things. Not much. I was a kid, after all, my head was like a massive jukebox. It still is, come to think of it."

Scott makes a sniffling sound. To an ordinary person it would seem like he's fighting tears, but Stiles feels the barely there inhaling against the sensitive skin of his neck. Scott is smelling him. His embrace tightens and Stiles has to wriggle out before his bones start grinding.

"Scott..." Melissa warns.

Scott unwillingly retracts his hands. "No, mom. It's Stiles, I can tell. It's faint but he smells–I mean it has to be him. He's like an older version of himself.” He glances briefly at John as he says that. The man inconspicuously nods, his shoulders sagging in relief. Huh. 

So apparently everyone in this close circle knows about Scott being a werewolf. It makes sense, in the end. Melissa is Scott's mom and the Sheriff is an important person in Beacon Hills, invested in every petty crime. It's only practical to have them involved.

Stiles wonders, though, how Scott can tell that he smells the same as he did when they were kids. Scott wasn't a monster then, Stiles is sure he would have found out otherwise. Scott had to familiarize himself with Stiles' scent after his turn. Has he been visiting Stiles' old room? Is there even Stiles' old room to visit? 

“I would still like to make sure,” Melissa says. Stiles quirks an eyebrow, watching as she takes buccal swabs in plastic envelopes out of her purse. She does so with a steady hand and a determined expression on her face. It looks like she's been preparing for this moment the whole seven years. 

“Stiles, do you mind?"

Stiles shrugs. “Go ahead.”

"Did you drink coffee or tea in the last few hours?" Melissa asks.

He shakes his head. “No.”

"Okay." Melissa nods to herself and steps closer. She seems so careful, like Stiles will suddenly snap and try to kill her. He snorts at that quietly. Melissa notices, her jaw clenching, but she doesn't say anything. John and Scott stand in silence while she rolls the tip of the swab on the inside of his cheek and then repeats the process with a second swab on the inside of his other cheek. Stiles watches her from underneath his lashes the whole time. It appears to make her uncomfortable, and he entertains himself by it.

She can't be fast enough to step away from him, putting the two swabs in the envelope and taking out the other two. She turns to the Sheriff. “John, please?”

Stiles feels a stab of annoyance at the familiarity between the two. He walks around the table in a manner that could resemble a predator circling around the prey. “He's drunk out of his ass, won't it contaminate the test results?”

Melissa's brown eyes flash in startled incredulity. “Stiles!”

John grips the edge of the table tightly, slightly swaying on his legs. Melissa reaches out to him but John gently shakes her hand off. “No. Stiles is right, Melissa. I'm… I've had too much.”

She hugs the swabs to her chest, features softening in a display of genuine love and companionship. “It's okay. Not eating or drinking is just a precaution. But if there's going to be a problem, I will let you know, John, and we can take a sample any other day.” 

Stiles shouldn't care, and he tells himself he doesn't, but he wonders if Melissa and the Sheriff are fucking, or if they are together as a couple, even. Stiles thinks about his mom every day. How often does the Sheriff think about her? He watches as Melissa takes John's DNA sample with a gentle hand while giving him a reassuring smile. He's pretty sure that John doesn't think about Stiles' mom too often. 

He’s been here for such a short time, and he already wants this assignment to be over. Master insisted Stiles shouldn't rush things or there's a high possibility of failure, but he's not the one having to suffer through this. He's not the one having to wake up every morning in this strange house he's not been a part of for so long, and pretending like he cares about these people. Master always talks about the assignments as theirs, but in the end it's Stiles doing the dirty parts, while Master sits back and collects the rewards.

“Stiles.”

Stiles raises his head in question.

“You spaced out,” John says carefully. They are looking at him as if he's the odd one of the group consisting of a werewolf, a drunk, and a substitute.

Stiles clears his throat. He can't continue having these relapses, there's a job that needs to be done, and being difficult won't accomplish that. “Sorry,” he says. “I'm just tired. Been traveling all day, you know. That's all.”

Scott furrows his brows, and that's when Stiles realizes he has to adjust his tactics, because he's going to have to put up with a nosy furry lie detector much sooner than he expected. Stiles' only bright thought before crossing the town's border was that maybe he would reunite with Scott and have him on his side. And Scott had to go and ruin it by becoming a werewolf.

No one seems to know what to say, so Stiles breaks the silence, “So when’re the test results going to come through?”

“Give me a couple of days,” Melissa replies.

“I don't need any test results to know with certainty that he is my son,” John says resolutely, as if his claim will change Stiles’ view on him.

“I would still like to confirm it for you, John. You shouldn't forget where we live.”

“And where's that, Mrs. McCall?” Stiles asks, just for the kicks.

Melissa tilts her head to the side, eyeing Stiles calculatingly. Whatever she might say, though, is interrupted by Scott clasping his hands together.

"So! Sleepover?" 

"Scott,” she says with a frown, “maybe Stiles would rather spend some alone time with his dad, I'm sure they have much to talk about."

“I get that,” Scott says, shooting a careful glance at Stiles before looking back at his mom and John. “But like you said, we can't be sure until we're _sure_ sure. So it may be better if I stay here? Just to, you know, keep an eye on stuff?”

Way to be subtle, Scotty, Stiles thinks. But whatever, Scott is never going to know what hit him when it eventually will. So far he's unintentionally playing into Stiles' cards. "Actually," he says. "I think I'd like to spend some time with Scott."

John seems torn between what the safe and sane thing to do is and what he'd prefer to do. He looks at Scott and Melissa in desperation. ”I thought we might talk or... or watch a movie. Anything, really, Stiles. I haven't seen you for seven years.”

Spending time with his biological father is the last thing on Stiles' to-do list, if it's even there. He may be inclined in the future to take time to vent his bottled up feelings by yelling at John, but that time is certainly not now. Not when he's just arrived. 

Melissa's eyes are dead cold on Stiles, her mistrust couldn't be more evident. “Maybe Scott is right, John,” she says eventually. “At least for tonight, it would be best if you had someone with you.”

John drops his head with an almost inaudible sigh. He stares at his untouched sandwiches. “Alright. If that's what Stiles wants.”

It's not about what Stiles wants but about what needs to be done to get this job finished. His whole life spins around necessities, his wishes pushed to the background. 

“I do,” he says. 

Scott gives Stiles a blinding smile and goes to stand next to him. Melissa grabs her purse from the table and turns to her son.

"Call me in the morning. Or even during the night if you need anything."

Scott hugs her before she leaves, and it makes Stiles feel a pang in his heart. John shows her out, and when he returns he hovers at the kitchen doorway, looking just as lost as he did when he opened the door to find Stiles standing on the porch. Scott isn't much of a help either, seeming to settle for the part of a silent observer, and trying painfully hard not to disturb the moment between reunited father and son by even breathing.

It's all really awkward. Without a word, Stiles picks up his backpack and walks around them. He follows his intuition, going up the stairs and into the only room with a closed door. He wraps his fingers around the handle, his palm tingling against the cold metal. He allows himself to make a brief pause before he pushes the door open.

He's not sure what he expects when he steps inside. Maybe some kind of a revelation, like when there's a snap and the amnesiac person suddenly remembers. But just like with the rest of the house, there's nothing. His gaze flickers from the lacrosse stick in the corner over the posters of rock bands Stiles has never heard of hanging on the walls to The Avengers sheets dominating the bed. The room looks like it belongs to a teenager. A teenager who's not Stiles. He would suspect it's someone else's room but the bed is untouched, and the furniture gathered up a thin layer of dust, which means anyone rarely enters here.

He turns to Scott and John. They stand at the door, quietly having followed him here.

"I, uh..." John pauses to draw in a breath. His eyes slide over Stiles and the room with such a longing it would tear Stiles’ heart apart if there was room in it for this man. "I was hoping you'd return someday and I kept updating your room. So that when I got you back, you wouldn't have to sleep in a child's room."

Stiles walks across the room to the working desk. There're notebooks put together in a pile just at the edge, pens scattered next to them, and it's not his name Stiles sees written messily on the label of the top notebook. 

He aligns the pens with his finger. "Tell me, Sheriff," he says over his shoulder. "Have you been looking for me?"

John takes a step forward. Scott looks like he wants to hold him back, but his hand stops mid-air. "How can you ask me that, Stiles?"

“That's not an answer, Sheriff,” Stiles grits through his teeth. His spark hovers inside his chest like a keen audience, sending soothing shivers through his body. 

"Of course I kept looking for you, Stiles! Every single day of my miserable life I've spent searching for any clue that would lead me to you! You have no idea what I've been through." John's voice rises in intensity, like that will somehow impress Stiles more than the actual words. He's so arrogant to point out how his own life was one constant misery, when he knows nothing about what Stiles has gone through to get to where he is today.

"Sheriff," he interrupts the man, because he doesn't want to go through this conversation, and his spark is getting anxious and eager to defend him. "Calm down. Get some sleep. We can argue in the morning when you feel more level-headed."

John huffs. "You know what would help me? Getting my son back." He turns around and stomps out of the room. Stiles and Scott stand in silence, listening to John's feet thudding across the house before they hear the slamming of a door.

"That was pretty cruel, man,” Scott says, “You didn't have to do that."

"He didn't look for me," Stiles says, a bit bitterly, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

Scott jumps up at that, and he kneels in front of Stiles, looking up at him with wide glassy eyes. "That's not true! Your dad went nuts when you ran off that day and didn't come back. He was searching everywhere, put a whole station and even feds on it. My father helped, too. And nothing, not even a scratch. It was like you vanished into thin air."

_'Don't trust them.’_

Lies, it's all lies.

"It was hard on everyone," Scott continues. "I lost my best friend for forever and I was too small to get it, you know. My mom told me you went to visit your distinct family or some crap, but you weren't coming back even after weeks had gone by, so she told me. She told me that you ran away after your mom's... funeral. And that no one has seen you since."

Stiles nods. He remembers that day. He found John in the living room, crying like a baby and putting a bottle of clear liquid to his lips. The whole room stank of alcohol. It made him sick, but he tried to be brave and stay with his dad. He also kept trying to cheer him up, because it had been bad since they'd admitted mom to the hospital but that day, it was worse. It was a day after mom's funeral, and his dad has been drinking since the morning, barely moving from his place on the couch. He was like a silent statue, scaring Stiles to tears. People kept calling on the telephone, and dad rhythmically picked up the receiver only to press the end button and hang up again. When the phone started shrieking for the fifteenth time, John sprang up and tore it from the cables, smashing it against the wall with an inhuman cry.

Stiles just wanted to get his dad back. Like he'd been before. He kept blabbering about stupid things, trying to crack jokes to see the blue of his clouded eyes clear again. He talked and talked until his dad snapped. He told Stiles to shut up, go up into his room and stop bothering him for at least a goddamn minute. He was huge, towering over Stiles' small frame, and Stiles was afraid of him. For a second, only, but that second in that moment measured more than all previous years of loving hugs and smiles put together. 

So he went, but not into his bedroom. He turned around and just... He remembers reaching for the front door, drowning in tears just like his dad was drowning in alcohol. And he ran, his small body dragging him a long, long way. He left the tears behind in the wind wheezing by his ears.

He stopped only when his legs buckled under him from exhaustion. His lungs were on fire, his body covered in a cold sweat. He knelt on his bruised knees, coughing out spit and realizing he's on a road and having no idea where. He stood up on his numb legs, turned again and again in a panicked circle, but saw nothing familiar. Trees around the road loomed over his head, their shadows stretching to his feet as if they wanted to grab him. 

He remembers his breath coming out short, chest constricting and mind on the edge of a panic attack. He remembers hearing a horn and looking over his shoulder at a car slowing down and stopping beside him. A woman in the driver's seat, rolling down the passenger window and kindly smiling at him, her hair long, sun-kissed and shiny, just like his mom's had been.

He remembers her asking him if he got lost and him wiping his tear-stained face with a sleeve and nodding. He remembers getting into the car.

"Stiles?"

Stiles hums in question. "Sorry, what?"

"You spaced out again, dude."

Stiles shakes his head. He gives Scott a smile that hopefully passes as reassuring. "Sorry. It's been a long day. I was wired before and now it's like someone pulled out strings from my body."

Scott nods, like he understands. Like he understands what Stiles has been through. Like he can imagine it all and hence now be sympathetic. Stiles doesn't like the way Scott's been treating him so far. As if they were still friends from the sandbox (them against the bullies, them against the world) and there were no years in between then and now bringing them apart. Stiles is not the boy with tears in his eyes, because that bully Jackson snapped his crayons in halves. And neither is Scott. Not by a long shot. Damn werewolves. 

"Do you want me to, uh..." Scott trails off, not looking particularly sure about what he was going to say. 

"You can stay with me in the room," Stiles says. "And maybe tomorrow you can show me around?" He hopes he doesn't come off as pushy or too eager. Scott doesn't seem to mind, though. He beams at Stiles.

"Of course! It hasn't changed much but there were some pretty neat reconstructions going on last year. They built a new mall, and we even got a multi theater with 3D!"

"I don't like 3D much," Stiles says, surprising them both by letting this unimportant but private piece of information slip. But it's true. He likes the classic experience. Old flickering theater screens, coke in one hand, popcorn in the other, and no heavy glasses boring hole into the bridge of his nose. 

Scott waits for Stiles to elaborate, but when the silence stretches into the uncomfortable kind, he asks, "Do you want to sleep? We can talk tomorrow. There's so many things you have to catch up to! Unless you... Are you planning to stay? Because your dad–"

"I'm staying, Scott."

Scott looks relieved, the way you would if someone was trying to take away your favorite pet but decided to let you keep it in the end. For a while. "Okay. Good... That's good." He shuffles on the floor, glances around. “So you wanna–”

“Tell me what you’ve been up to,” Stiles says, leaning back against the headboard. 

Scott does. For what feels like hours, Stiles sits and half-listens about Scott's first day in high school, about his lacrosse practices, about how the teachers in his school are an unfair bunch of assholes. 

Stiles hasn't needed to worry about grades or calculus in a long time. It sounds alien to him. And completely ridiculous.

Eventually his eyes start to droop. Scott's voice grows distant until it fades away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks goes to my amazing beta Anna <3


	2. Chapter 2

**NOW**

Stiles sits bolt upright in bed, panting for breath. The Avengers sheets stick to his clammy palms and won't let go, catching him like a fly in a spider web. The dazzling smile of Captain America, kissed by the first sun rays of the day, contorts into an appalling sneer. 

“Stiles?”

A high-pitched laughter rings in his ears as remnants of a nightmare cling to his mind like a child to its mother, but when he tries to put the pieces together to remember what he'd dreamed about there's too many of them missing. 

“Hey, are you okay?” Scott's concerned face shapes in front of him in a whirlwind of blurred colors. He reaches out to put his hand on Stiles' shoulder in an attempt to comfort him, but Stiles slaps it away. The last thing he wants right now is for someone to crowd him. 

“I'm fine.”

“Are you–”

“Yes, I'm sure,” Stiles snaps. He regrets it immediately when Scott recoils back. Stiles doesn't need Scott weirded out and doubting. He needs him on his side.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

Since his encounter with the wraith, Stiles has been having troubles differentiating dreams from reality. When his mind is just on the edge of consciousness, it swiftly falls back, pulling him into an alarmed state of confusion. Is it real? Is he still dreaming? He hasn't had this much trouble since he was a kid, right after Master saved him from _her_ , and it irritates him that he's losing control over his mind like this. 

“No problem,” Scott says. He doesn't look particularly reassured, but Stiles is saved from having to explain himself when someone knocks on the door. 

John waits a touch before opening it with a careful push. He sobered up, Stiles notes with satisfaction. He still looks haggard, and he's wearing the same crumpled clothes as yesterday, but his cloudy eyes sparkle with life in the early sun. His posture straightened, gaining a tentative confidence.

He seeks Stiles out with his gaze, releasing a soft exhale of relief when he finds him sitting on the bed. “I made breakfast,” he says in a feigned indifferent voice.

Scott springs up as if he was waiting for an opportunity to move, and pulls Stiles to his feet. “Awesome! I'm starving. Aren't you starving, Stiles?”

Stiles doesn't have much of a choice other than to comply, and when John heads to the kitchen, leaving the bedroom door open behind himself, he lets Scott steer him downstairs without a word of objection. 

His eyes stray to the front door while they descend the stairs. A flash of a memory has him seeing a little kid with dark hair buzzed close to the scalp, tears and snot flowing down his face as he yanks the door open and sprints out of the house like there's no tomorrow. 

Stiles often spent his earlier days with Master wondering what his life would have been like if he had stayed inside that day. He had plenty of time to think about it. Wrapped in a blanket, laying all day on a couch in their small, small apartment (although at that time he didn't yet think about the apartment as theirs), there was nothing to occupy himself with. So his mind wandered. 

Would he wake up in the morning and go to school, hang out with a cool group of friends, a girlfriend or a boyfriend? Would he come back to have a dinner with his dad in the living room while they watched a football match? How would it feel like? 

In the end, despite his vivid imagination, he couldn't picture any of it. 

It's funny how the first ten years of his life got lost in the maze that was his brain, but how he remembers the first couple of weeks in that tiny apartment like they were the first weeks of his life. He has memories of John that still remain, but they are like scenes in a movie, torn out of context. He knows he was part of them (had Dad blow over his bruise after falling off a bike, played with cars under the Sheriff's desk, had to hold Dad's hand on his first day of school because he was terrified). He can see himself crying for John, smiling at John, hugging John. But when he does, he's not feeling anything. 

“Come on, let's go.” 

Stiles looks behind himself. He's stopped in the middle of the stairs and has been holding tightly onto the handrail until his knuckles turned white. Scott smiles at him reassuringly, like nothing's wrong, and nudges him to continue walking, following one step behind.

When they enter the kitchen, Stiles has to blink several times, not sure if he's still dreaming. There's a bowl with oranges and grapes cut in quarters in the middle of the table, surrounded by glasses with lemonade, plates with scrambled eggs, toasts, and fried bacon. It seems like John tried to make up for yesterday in every way.

“I was up early so I did a little bit of grocery shopping. I hope you like it,” John says to Stiles, putting a plate of chocolate muffins next to the fruits. “I'm not sure what you like, so… Choose whatever you want, and we can do more shopping later. I usually work on Saturdays, but I took a day off today, so we have time to help you settle down.”

John waves at the table when Stiles doesn't say anything. “I bought lemonade, and there's apple and orange juice in the fridge, but we also have tea–fruit or herbal–if you want.”

“Do you have coffee? Black, no sugar.” 

John blinks at him, equally surprised and pleased that Stiles is talking to him. “Yeah, sure. Scott?”

“Not for me, thanks,” Scott replies, dropping down in one of the chairs. He reaches for a muffin and stuffs his mouth full with it like he's applied for a speed eating contest. Stiles sits opposite him and waits in silence while John brews the coffee and pours it into a big mug. 

He inhales the strong aroma when John sets the mug in front of him. It smells beautiful. He takes a sip, careful not to burn his tongue. The rich taste slides down his throat, eliciting a moan, and before Stiles knows it, half of the coffee is gone. John chuckles at his reaction and sits down next to Scott, giving Stiles space. 

“Want more?”

“No,” Stiles replies. 

John lets out a sigh, and Scott gives him a sideways comforting smile, along the lines of _It will be okay in time_. Stiles doubts that, but he doesn't say anything.

They eat in silence, but Stiles can see John struggling to force himself not to speak right away. Stiles puts a forkful of scrambled eggs in his mouth, and counts in his head. He's at forty-one when John's patience runs out.

“So,” he starts. Stiles leans back in his chair and waits. “Did you sleep well, Stiles?”

The question surprises him, and he takes a moment to answer. “… Yeah.”

In a momentary movement, John's eyes flick to Scott, whose mouth tightens. They're in perfect sync, and Stiles is left without a doubt they have done this type of interrogation before. “Okay, maybe not that well,” he corrects himself. “I slept in a strange place for the first night, what do you expect?”

John frowns. “This is your home, Stiles, not some B&B.”

“We will have to agree to disagree on that for future reference, Sheriff; this place hasn't been my home for a very long time. It might as well be Bates Motel to me.”

Scott furrows his eyebrows. “What motel?”

“My son is comparing his childhood home to the motel in Psycho, Scott,” John says irritably, clutching his fork in his hand with a brutality no silverware deserves.

“Oh.”

A sour silence lays over the kitchen. Stiles' muscles twitch at every tick of the wall clock and strain as wind whistles through a tiny slit in the window frame. John puts the fork away with a soft _clank_ , and it's still the loudest sound in the kitchen.

“I'm sorry for yesterday, Stiles. I admit that I wasn't very coherent, and... I should have handled things better. I can't possibly express how much it means to me that you are here. I thought… I knew you were out there, alive, and it didn't matter what everyone else had to say about it. They didn't know you how I did, Stiles. They had no idea how brave and–and strong you are. I knew that one day I would reach you or that you would find your way back to me. And you did. You are here...”

John trails off. He looks uncomfortable discussing this in front of Scott, but it's not like Scott is paying much attention to what John is saying, anyway. His focus is on Stiles, as he listens to every thump of Stiles' heart and annoys the hell out of him. 

John waits for Stiles to react, but what is there to say? Stiles clicks his tongue, eyes roaming over the table, not really settling on anything.

“... Okay.”

At first he’s not even sure that it was him who uttered that word, but it was, and he would smack himself for it the next second. It appears like he's not the only one who has no idea how to deal with his reaction, either. 

John's face is pale with green edges, like he's just ate something horrid. “Okay...” he mutters to himself. And chuckles humorlessly. “Did you hear that, Scott?”

Scott puckers his lips and wisely chooses not to answer. In an attempt to vent his nervous energy, he starts scraping the table surface with his fingernail. Each screeching line he draws with his finger only pushes Stiles to the edge more and more.

“What happened that day, Stiles?” John asks, after he collects himself.

“What day, Sheriff?”

John huffs out an irritated breath. “The day you ran away, Stiles.” 

Stiles brushes his thumb over his bottom lip. There was something in John's words that captured his attention. He noticed it yesterday, but he shrugged it off and decided to wait and see if John continued doing it. And he did.

“Does it make it more real when you repeat my name aloud? Is that why you do it?”

Stiles knows he's hit the bull's eye when John's jaw tightens and Scott stops scraping the table, his expression turning acutely curious. 

“Answer the question, St–” John runs a hand over his face. “Just answer the question, please.” 

“I ran away. It's simple as that,” Stiles says with a shrug. 

“But why?”

“Why did I run away?” Stiles studies John with a frown. “You don't remember, do you?”

The baffled expression is enough of an answer. It should probably make him angry, but Stiles only feels a disappointment. How long did it take John to stop wallowing in his own misery to notice his son was gone? To realize that he wasn't the only one on the verge of a breakdown?

“It doesn't matter,” Stiles says, “it was stupid, anyway. Point is, I sneaked out of the house. I ran and ran and, well, I got lost. I was lost for a long time. Then someone found me and took care of me, helped me.”

“Who found you?” John asks after a pause. And for that question, Stiles has waited seven years. He knows that the Sheriff for some reason still feels the need to be his father. And that has to stop if they are to coexist with each other without any unnecessary damage.

“A family,” he replies.

Scott's mouth falls slack as he stares at Stiles in bewilderment. It's John's reaction, though, that gives Stiles a thrill of power and makes his spark purr in satisfaction. The Sheriff's body shakes with fine tremors of badly conceived anger. Stiles could as well be holding the man's heart in his hand and be squeezing it to dust.

He must be doing a terrible job of containing the little smirk tugging up the corners of his lips. Scott's brow furrows in a thin, angry line when he notices, but whatever he has to say is interrupted by John's low voice. “Give us a moment, Scott, will you.”

“But Mr. Sti–”

“I'm not asking.”

Scott shakes his head in Stiles' direction, staring at him in disbelief, like he can't comprehend how Stiles could be so cold. Like he has a pattern of Stiles' behavior he can compare this one with. That's his problem, right there. Not being able to separate present from past. And that's also why Stiles is ultimately going to win and Scott is going to lose.

After the front door closes behind Scott's back, John gives Stiles a long assessing look. 

“I hope this will come out right, but it's not easy what I'm about to say, so just bear with me for a moment, okay?” he says, but doesn't wait for an answer before continuing. “I've spent a long time imagining how things would go if I found you or if you somehow came back to me… But after all these years it became such a vague idea in my head that–I guess I stopped mentally preparing myself. I did still prepare, you see. I kept updating your bedroom and I hoped every goddamn day, every hour, every time I got out of bed and before I fell asleep. I told myself I would get you back... But I'm not sure when it morphed into a dream rather than reality, Stiles. I'm not sure when I stopped thinking about how it would go.”

Stiles absentmindedly rubs at the tattoo peeking out at his collarbone while he listens to the tale. John's eyes drop to the fine line of ink, and Stiles can see the disapproval in them. 

“Stiles, can you...”

Stiles smiles at him politely. He keeps rubbing the tattoo. “What?”

John spreads out his arms with an exasperated sigh. “This is what I'm talking about. Are you mad at me?”

“No,” Stiles replies immediately. Then winces. John doesn't need Scott breathing down his neck to recognize the obvious lie.

“Why didn't you come back after you ran away?”

“I told you I got lost.”

“You got lost in the town you grew up in?”

“I ran much farther than where Beacon Hills ends.”

John stands up and towers over him, planting his palms on the table. Stiles can tell this posture is intimidating to some people sitting on the opposite side of the interrogation table. “Are you messing with me?”

“Why would you think that, Sheriff?”

“Why won't you call me dad if you're not mad at me?”

Stiles opens his mouth but promptly snaps it shut. He works his jaw, trying to sort through the stuff he can let out and save the rest inside his head where it should stay hidden. “I lived without you for seven years, and I got by pretty well, if you ask me. I'm used to having my own space and no one to rely on. You can't expect me to come back and just take up where we left off. It doesn't work like that.”

He thinks his points sound valid, but judging by the Sheriff's face it should work exactly like that in his naive world.

“This _family_ ,” John spits the word like it's poison, “that rescued you. Tell me who and where they are.”

“So you can arrest them? I don't think so.”

“It's really not up to you, Stiles.”

“I, on the other hand, think that it really is. You should realize that my family did nothing wrong. They helped me.”

“They were a bunch of child abductors,” John raises his voice. He slams his palm down on the table, making the plates and glasses jump. It's a miracle nothing spills. “They were obligated to take you back to me or hand you over to the nearest police station.”

“I'm not a thing to hand over, I'm my own person,” Stiles snarls. He stands up as well, to be eye level with John. Anger bubbles inside him like a volcano, and he clenches his hands in tight fists at his sides, restraining himself from allowing his magic off the leash. 

The front door clicks open and Scott's head peeks from behind the doorframe. Of course, he's been listening in to the whole conversation. Why do werewolves assume that just because they can, it's okay to spy on people? 

_“Don't get distracted,”_ Master's voice says in the back of his mind.

Stiles turns back to John, and he mimics Master's calm but no less intimidating firm voice when he says, “Don't you ever say a word about my family ever again, Sheriff. Or I'm gone and you'll never see me for the rest of your life. Do you understand?”

John looks sick. He watches him for a long moment with something akin to fear flickering in his eyes, either from the possibility of losing Stiles again or due to the steel in Stiles' words. Stiles doesn't care. He needs this to get through.

“Do you understand?” he grits though his teeth.

John nods stiffly. “I understand.”

“Good.” 

Stiles releases the tight grip he's had on the table’s edge, and stalks over to Scott. “Scott promised to show me the town today. The shopping will have to wait until I'm back.” 

He grabs Scott by his sleeve and pushes him out of the house. The only reason he's able to do that is because the werewolf is probably in shock and allows himself to be easily moved. John calls his name, but he thankfully doesn't try to follow.

 

**THEN**

When Stiles wakes up, the first thing he becomes aware of is the grounding weight of a hand on his shoulder. He'd recognize the broad fingers anywhere. Master used to run them through Stiles' hair when Stiles was younger and woke up screaming from a nightmare. It worked like a miracle, and soothed him back to sleep every time, but what was a nightly occurrence in the beginning has been over the years reduced, until Stiles sometimes wonders if it wasn't just his mind playing tricks on him.

He has learned to deal with nightmares on his own as he grew up, squeezing the sheets with silent tears and counting his stuttering breaths. It usually takes about one or two hours for him to fall back asleep.

The hand retreats, and Stiles cranes his body to chase after the touch. 

“Stiles.”

Master's voice always stays level and never rises at the end of his questions. Stiles has come to develop a special sense to determine when an answer is demanded of him. He sits up, feeling light-headed. “My magic burned the wraith. It's gone.”

A small smile that Stiles treasures so much grazes Master's lips. Together with his greying unruly hair, it gives him a playful appearance. He's an attractive man, and Stiles would lie if he said he'd never noticed. It's hard to ignore the longing looks women keep sending the man when they pass him on the street. Stiles doesn't feel spikes of jealousy anymore as much as a hint of gratification. He knows Master will never return those looks. He lives for his job and for Stiles. Those women mean nothing to him.

“Good job, kid,” Master says.

A wave of warm pleasure washes over Stiles. His head spins and stomach rolls, a tax of using his spark for such a difficult task, but he grins anyway. “I'm glad this is our last job for the time being. We deserve a break, you know. You're too old for this shit.”

Master huffs out a short laugh. “That's why I have you for the tough parts.” His hand twitches. For a second, Stiles is sure he will reach out to stroke his hair, but Master's hand never draws closer. Instead, he rests it back on the bed. Stiles stares at it, while bitter disappointment churns in his stomach.

Sometimes he is sure that he's going crazy. It can't be normal to crave something this much.; that the prospect of never gaining it makes the breath stick in his lungs and suffocate him. 

“We have one last job to finish before we're allowed to take a break.”

Stiles raises his head. “What?”

“They texted me after you'd gone to sleep. It's going to be a tough job, but supposedly our last one.”

Frustration flares hotly in Stiles' veins. “They said that about the job in summer. And about this one, too,” he retorts, not able to keep the exasperation out of his voice. 

Master doesn't look apologetic. He never does. Like he says, he's a man of action, and once he takes it, there's no backing down. What is, is. That's how the world functions for him, lIke a carousel. You can just hop on and go with it, but you can't possibly turn the course. 

He replies exactly how Stiles expects him to. “I know, kid, but it's their rules and we have to play accordingly. I once agreed to them, and I have to carry out my part of the deal.”

Stiles' spark feebly twitches, trying to climb to the surface but too exhausted to do so. Which is good, for once. Stiles doesn't need to have this never-ending argument while also having to control his magic. “They're just using you,” he snaps. “Whatever the deal is, it's stupid. You should have told them to fuck off a long time ago!”

Master stands up with such a force it would be alone enough to have Stiles shut his mouth, but he apparently also needs to accompany the action with cutting words. “Calm down, goddamnit. I told you that I can't leave. Their contentment is very important to me. You don't know the whole story.” 

“Because you never told me!”

Master paces over the room. The only time when he lets his guard down and allows Stiles to see his true emotions is when they fight. It may make Stiles a masochist, but lately, he's been living for these moments.

“I'm not having this argument with you again,” Master hisses. “You're supposed to trust me. I saved you. I raised you! I'm–”

Stiles' eyes narrow. He grips the bedsheets with his fingers. “You're not, though. I have a father and it's not you. You're using me just like they are using you.”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

This is all he gets? He's not being ridiculous. He knows he's right. And most of the time he's even sure that he's not losing it. Some days, he's a bird in the sky, free to fly wherever he wants. He's free and then in the next second, he's closed in their small apartment with only one other person on this whole planet who's willing to put up with him. Who is so hard to figure out, equally fascinating and frustrating. A puzzle which has been driving him mad for years. 

When his Master turns his back on him and curls his hand around the handle of the door, Stiles feels his heart constrict. 

“We're expected tomorrow at six in the main house.” 

“Wait,” Stiles gasps breathlessly, heart beating madly in his chest. He can't let Master leave like this. Angry at him. What if he doesn't come back and Stiles is alone again? _Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me._ His breath hitches when Master looks at him sternly. 

“Get some rest,” he says, and with that he's out of the door. Leaving Stiles in suffocating silence. His heart is hammering inside his chest like it belongs to a rabbit running for its life. The room spins as he shakily climbs out of the bed and squats on the floor, trying to make everything slow down. His spark jerks alive and crashes against his ribcage as if to get out. He tries to focus on the single thought which can save him; that Master won't leave him, that he will come back for him, but it's like his body and brain have disconnected. 

He ends up in a fetal position on the floor, shallow gulps of air wheezing through his nose. His head is a top of fears spinning out of control, each one pushing his mind further into blackness.

Strong arms encircle his heaving body and tug him back against a solid chest. Master's voice soothingly murmurs in his ear. “Breathe through it, Stiles. With me, come on. Focus on my heart, and let your spark guide you.”

Stiles does. It's a slow process, but he eventually feels the magic spread out in hot waves from his spark to wash over him with a quiet lull. He exhales in rhythm with Master's strong heartbeats. Tears sting in his eyes as he tries to blink away the black spots dancing around in his vision. Every shuddering expanding of his lungs rocks his boneless body. It feels like he's run a marathon.

He licks his dry lips. 

“Sometimes I hate you.” 

He craves for the broad fingers to run through his hair. Needs the touch like he needs his spark. But it never comes. Master sighs.

“I know.” 

It's not an apology, it's an acknowledgment.

 

**NOW**

The café Scott has taken him to is lively, and they have to raise their voices if they want to be heard over the kids who are running around the garden tables and cane lounging chairs, screaming and giggling loudly as they play Tag. Stiles digs into his chocolate ice cream with one of the ridiculously small plastic spoons the waitress supplied them with. The glorious flavor melts on his tongue, and he can almost forget the shrieking children. 

There's a group of high school students in the corner, nestled on a wide couch. A girl with strawberry-blonde hair and an oversized jacket hung over her shoulders spoons against her boyfriend, who looks like he popped straight out of a magazine cover. 

They both glanced up when Scott and Stiles entered, but other than a brief nod to Scott and the curious once over they gave Stiles, they haven't acknowledged their presence. 

Stiles gives up trying to work the plastic spoon, and starts scooping the rest of the ice cream with his finger. “What do you want to do today?” he asks Scott, trying to get him to talk again. He's had this look on his face, uncertainty mixed with a handful of anger, since they left the Sheriff's house. He wants to demand what the hell is Stiles' problem, but he's too afraid to bring it up, holding on to the memory of best friends from childhood, unwavering and too tight.

“Wouldn’t you rather go back home? I'm sure that your da–the Sheriff would like to, you know, talk about stuff...”

“Maybe later,” Stiles replies. “I should probably give him some time to cool off, then we can talk like adults.”

Scott scoffs, and Stiles glares at him. “... Sorry.”

“So do you have any plans?” Stiles prompts, eager to change the subject.

“I help out at the veterinary clinic a few days a week. I have a shift today at three,” Scott says, putting a spoonful of his blue ice cream into his mouth. “No one usually comes by today, but it's good to be there just in case of an emergency, and at least I can use the time to learn more about the veterinary medicine.”

“Want to become an animal doctor?”

Scott gives him a genuine smile. They’d hit a topic he's passionate about. “Uh-huh. I'm not sure if I'll have the grades for it, but we'll see. Isaac helps me a lot with tutoring. He's a natural when it comes to physics, I have no idea how he remembers all that stuff.”

 _Isaac Lahey_. Stiles read the name yesterday on the notebook labels in his old room. He weighs the pros and cons of asking Scott about the guy, when Scott beats him to it.

“Sorry, I didn't tell you about Isaac. I wasn't sure whether it was too soon to bring him up, but you'll meet him eventually anyway, so... My mom sort of adopted him a year ago? His father was a bastard. Long story short, Isaac didn't have anywhere to go and we took him in. He's my brother now.”

“I saw his name on the notebooks in the Sheriff's house. In my old room,” Stiles says, hoping to come off as nonchalant.

Scott digs into his ice cream vehemently, buying himself time before answering. “That's because before he started living with us, he'd lived for a few weeks with the Sheriff. I think he used your room a couple times for studying… There's great natural light from the window and the chair is real comfy,” he hurries to explain, when Stiles doesn't say anything. “Otherwise he slept in the guestroom. And it was just for a couple of weeks anyway.”

So why are the notebooks still there? 

“It's fine,” Stiles grunts. 

He has a feeling of being watched, and when his eyes scan over the café, he finds his reason why. The group of the students are still deep in conversation, but the cover boy stopped paying attention to his friends, and is now curiously looking in Stiles and Scott's direction. Like he could hear everything they've talked about, and Stiles doesn't need any more indications to know the guy is a werewolf. When he realizes that he's been caught, he turns back to his friends. He doesn't fool Stiles, though, into thinking that he's stopped listening. 

Stiles tries to keep in character of a muggle, and continues in his conversation with Scott, as if uninterrupted. “Hey, is there still the big playground in the main park?”

Scott beams at him. “You remember it?”

“Sure I do. There were these really high monkey bars and killer slides. It was the next coolest level of playground playing.” 

“And we spent all day in the sandbox.”

“Of course we did,” Stiles says, “Who in their right mind would try to get on really high monkey bars and killer slides? They looked like equipment additions to a serial killer's torture dungeon.”

Scott chuckles. “We met in that sandbox,” he says.

“I know. You looked pretty pathetic. And you were crying because that asshole–Jason, I think?–kicked you in the shin.”

A loud snort comes from the werewolf on the couch. The strawberry-blond girl turns to her boyfriend with a bored expression. She rolls her eyes when he leans in to whisper something in her ear. Stiles contemplates her pretty face. She feels familiar but he can't place her.

Scott clears his throat. “Yeah, uh… that was Jackson. You'll probably run into him one of these days.”

He looks lost and fragile in that moment; the opposite of a powerful supernatural creature. Stiles puts the string of his hoodie into his mouth and chews on it, contemplating Scott. He would like to know how Scott came to become a werewolf. They once used to be best friends, but today, Stiles can afford to think about Scott unbiasedly, and he can't figure out why Peter Hale would, off all people, choose a teenage boy with asthma to take up a place as his Beta. 

Fair point, Number One said that Peter Hale had spent several years in a non-responsive state, and that it left its marks on his sanity. It's possible that the Alpha was out of his mind when he started to build his new pack, and had pounced at the first person to cross his path. _Poor Scotty_. That's exactly why werewolves have taken up the high position on the list of dangerous creatures. Most monsters are born that way; they either procreate to increase in numbers, or they change on their own account, like wraiths. 

Werewolves turn innocent people, oftentimes without their consent. When werewolves get out of hand and there's no hunter to control them, things can get ugly. Stiles once heard of a group of hunters who had to deal with a whole colony of mostly feral werewolves in Arizona. The Alpha was out of her mind, and she kidnapped and bit over forty people before the hunters arrived. About twenty of those people died, and she apparently had a portion of her Betas who weren't handling the change well shackled in her basement, letting them starve to death. The cover-up of the whole incident was long and strenuous.

“Stiles… can I ask you something?” Scott starts hesitantly. “I know it's too soon, and you don't have to explain yourself to me or tell me anything you won't be comfortable with. I won't press...”

“Shoot.”

“I just… I don't get it. You said you ran away, and then got lost somehow. But evidently you remembered how to get back to the town. You're here now. So why… why didn't you, you know, come back sooner? Why now?”

Stiles pulls the string out of his mouth and bites on his bottom lip instead, pondering his words. “I wasn't prepared, I guess? I've never thought about it, and I think I didn't really want to. It was… bad for months after I ran away.”

“That's when the family you told us about found you? They took you in? Why didn't they–”

“It wasn't a whole family,” Stiles says. He's not even sure why. Maybe to gain Scott's trust quicker by answering unimportant questions? “It was one guy, actually.” 

Scott cringes, his imagination running wild. 

“Geeze, no!” Stiles cries out, affronted. “He was great. He saved me, raised me like a son. He had this ridiculously small apartment and no one to share it with. It was a win-win. He helped me and I gave him company… In a friendly, not at all weird or creepy kind of way, Scott,” he snaps irritably when Scott grimaces again.

Scott leans forward. “But when the friendly and not at all weird or creepy guy helped you, why didn't you want to come back? To your real dad?”

Scott basically wants to know if he should protect the Sheriff from Stiles and any possible hurt Stiles could implicate on the man. Stiles scoops up the last of the ice cream from the cup with his finger, licking at the pad, giving himself time to answer. 

“I was scared. The last memory of my… father was him yelling at me, throwing things at the wall. He was drinking, during mom's last days and after. And that day, after the funeral… I think you remember that I was always a bit annoying and hyped up. I still am. Put me in a bare room, and in a few minutes I will crawl the walls. I wouldn't stay still that day and I kept trying to cheer him up by talking, asking stuff. Stupid stuff, to be honest. And he snapped. I ran away, and after, when I was able to find my way home, I was afraid to come back... I was still a kid. I told the guy who found me that I didn't have any family.”

It's not all necessarily true, but Scott doesn't seem to realize that. He leans forward, tuning out everyone around them and making Stiles the sole center of his attention.

Stiles smiles sadly at him, allowing an earnest emotion to creep into his voice. “Time flies really fast, have you noticed? Before I realized it, I've been living with the guy for seven whole years.” Six, to be precise, but Scott doesn't need to know that.

“And now?”

“He's out of the picture now,” Stiles replies evasively. He looks at Scott pointedly, in a way that should suggest he's done answering questions for the day.

Scott realizes he's leaning over the table, and he jerks back. “I'm sorry. We don't have to talk abou it. Uh, wow. This ice cream? Delicious.”

When the waitress arrives, Scott pays for both of them, grinning at Stiles and dismissing his action with, “My bro came back to town, I should be the one to treat you.” His tongue peeks out between his lips as he says it, tinged blue from the ice cream, and Stiles gives into a tiny smile, the most sincerity he's shown since he arrived at Beacon Hills. 

“Are you planning to go back to school here?” Scott asks offhandedly as they walk out on the street. He sputters then, and promptly starts to apologize. Stiles has to think back to what the werewolf said. When he does, his cheeks tint a shade of pink, which happens rarely. 

“I didn't mean it–I mean,” Scott trips over his tongue. “Uh, have you gone to school?”

Stiles scratches the back of his head. “I was homeschooled.”

“Oh,” Scott says, “okay. Cool. So that means you can come back to school if you want to, right? You just have to pass some tests.”

“I think so,” Stiles says slowly. Honestly, he didn't consider the option that coming to Beacon Hills would also mean John might urge him to continue the compulsory education. Stiles doesn't have the slightest idea how long he'll have to stay in the town before he finishes his assignment, and he should have anticipated that people here will want him to fit in.

The problem is that Stiles hated school when he was a kid. He remembers being curious about every mundane topic and loving to learn how things worked. To the point of being obsessive about it, even, but that's just how his brain works. Master understood that from the beginning, and he told Stiles to cherish his mind; Stiles' obsessions multiply by hundreds when it comes to magic and the supernatural. 

He spent two weeks non stop learning everything there was to learn about pixies when he discovered they were real. And he didn't sleep for four days until he perfected the basic marking spell. He celebrated the achievement by collapsing in a heap of limbs and blacking out for the next two days straight.

But teachers in the school didn't understand his methods of learning when he was a kid. They reprimanded him when he started twitching or bouncing his knee up and down, bored quickly by having to listen to endless speeches delivered in monotone voices and having to sit still while doing so. They kept telling him what he could do and what he couldn't do, and Stiles was sick of it at the end of every day. 

“It'd be great if you did,” Scott says good-naturedly. “I could show you around, help you settle in. We could use an addition for our lacrosse team, if you'd be interested.”

Scott's pocket vibrates, and Stiles is saved from having to stop Scott from painting him a pink future filled with puppies and unicorns. Scott takes out his phone and unlocks the screen with a swipe of his thumb. “Sheriff wants to know if you're still with me,” he says, turning to Stiles. “I can text him that you will be back later, if you want me to?”

Stiles nods, watching Scott type away on his phone. “When do you finish?” he asks.

“Around eight. I'm meeting Kira after. Oh!” He jumps up, grabbing Stiles by his arm. “I didn't tell you about my girlfriend! That doesn't make me a bad boyfriend, does it? I just didn't think it was relevant... But she's great, I love her. If you want to meet, we can arrange something.”

Stiles cringes at Scott's excitement. “Sure, but... maybe some other day?”

“Sorry, definitely. I'm sure you'd like to spend the evening with the Sheriff, right?” 

He looks so hopeful that Stiles doesn't have it in him to say anything other than, “Maybe.”

“Awesome. We'll arrange something another day. Kira is going to love you, I'm sure. She has a thing for piercings and tattoos. When she saw my tattoo, she totally pounced on me.” Scott's eyes go distant. “Good times,” he says dreamily.

Stiles snorts. “What do you have?”

In his excitement, Scott starts to shrug off his jacket to roll up his long sleeve underneath when he realizes it's not possible to roll it high enough to show his tattoo. So he points at his left bicep and traces two lines with his finger. “I got two bands here, around the arm… it's hard to explain the meaning. I'll tell you one day,” he says cryptically. Stiles supposes it has to do with the supernatural.

“What about yours?” Scott asks, gaze falling down to Stiles' collarbone which is covered by his zipped up hoodie.

“It's hard to explain,” Stiles says with a grin. “Maybe I'll tell you one day.”

 

They spent the rest of Scott's free time endlessly strolling through the streets, and on three o'clock Stiles accompanies Scott to the clinic. He doesn't hang around for long there, though. After all, Alan Deaton is somewhere inside the building, and Stiles was warned not to let himself be spotted by the druid if he could help it. Instead, he makes use of his free time to explore the rest of the town. 

It turns out that Beacon Hills isn't as small as he’d believed.

The suburb part, where the Sheriff lives, is the repulsive picturesque small town where happy families with two and a half kids hold barbecues every Saturday. The center, on the other hand, has been filled with a modern-ish architecture. Tall metal buildings with spotless, floor-to-ceiling windows loom over the concrete squares, with trees creating shaded spots where people can hide during summer heats. 

Stiles walks past a gym and a couple of bars, and it feels almost as if he was back in the big city, on his way to his and Master's tiny apartment. The corners of his lips tug up in a small smile. The cold weather today is negligible, and overall, it's a nice, almost perfect day.

His feet carry him further out of the downtown. Little stones scrunch under his boots, his magic thrums just under his fingertips. The last time Stiles let his spark out was a week ago, and considering all the excitement it's been feeling from his part since yesterday, it can't wait for its moment. 

He walks around a towering factorial building he's familiarized himself with from the maps and photos. In person, the place smells like dirt and dust. It looks eerie and somber. Stiles can't believe anyone would chose this place as the main lair, let alone their home, but well, who is he to judge?

As he rounds the corner and continues in his journey, his steps echoing like stones thrown on a cave wall, he glances back up to the top floors of the building. There's a distinctive shadow of a person standing behind a large arched window. It's there for a second, before it walks back inside and vanishes out of sight. 

Stiles smirks to himself, looking back at the road. He will be back here in no time, but for now, there's more pressing matters on his mind. 

Passing a rusted sign for Beacon Hills Railroad Depot, Stiles walks down the empty barren road, searching around the warehouse district until he finds what he is searching. His new playground. He makes a circle around a large warehouse, pinpointing the weakest spot. The front metal door is chained with a massive lock, which Stiles could possibly undo with a bit of work and time, but he doesn't want to bring anyone's attention to this place. 

He walks around to the back instead. There's a hoard of crates, arranged in a pile. Stiles looks up to the small window just under the rooftop. He climbs up the nearest crate and, swinging his leg, proceeds up the pile toward the window. He balances on the top crates, wipes away the worst of the dirt with the end of his sleeve, and peers inside. 

The interior reminds him of a cathedral, the iron roof domed about twenty feet high. The sun pours down from the ceiling in endless sparkling streams of reflecting silvery dust particles, reminding Stiles of jingling glass wind chimes. The place is clear of everything, except for the remnants of wooden furniture broken into pieces and assembled at the far end of the hall. 

Immediately, Stiles falls in love with this place locked in time, and he hasn't even been inside. He imagines how powerful it must feel, standing in the middle with the dome running impossibly high above his head and with the ghosts of time tapping at the ceiling when the rain falls down and prompts them to move in a wild dance.

Stiles' mouth stretches in a wide grin, spark fluttering inside his chest. He can't wait to get things moving around here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the support, it means a lot! I will be updating once a week (or two weeks, depending on how much work I have in real life).


	3. Chapter 3

**NOW**

It looks like the Sheriff has called for backup. 

Stiles circles around the two newly appeared cars parked outside the house, curious to find out what kind of company he should expect. There's a police cruiser, and the other car is an unmarked black Toyota. They both scream trouble, but at this point it's too late to walk away. Stiles knocks on the front door and waits for trouble to answer. 

Soft orange light pours out from the hallway when John yanks the door open. “Stiles,” he breathes a loud sigh of relief, as if it still comes as a surprise to him that Stiles wasn't just part of a very complex hallucination. “Where have you been? We've looked for you everywhere!” 

“Why have you been looking for me?”

“Are you serious?” John bursts out. He remains standing speechless for a good few seconds before his shoulders slump in defeat. “It doesn't matter. Please, come on in.”

Stiles follows him inside. He can hear low voices emanating from the living room long before they enter. Two people raise their heads from a conversation. One smiles at him awkwardly; a young man clad in the department uniform. That explains the cruiser. 

The Deputy is sitting on the couch with hands exemplarily folded on his knees. He jumps up when Stiles approaches, and extends his hand. “I'm Deputy Jordan Parrish. It's nice to meet you, Stiles.”

He's quite pretty, in that polished innocent way. Stiles doesn't shake his hand. Instead, he gives the Deputy an appreciative once over from beneath his eyelashes. The Deputy retreats his hand, awkwardly clearing his throat.

“Sit down with us, Stiles,” the other man says, not bothering to stand up. He's older, around Master's age. Not as attractive though. He has a suit on, frayed at the cuffs, shabby by overuse. The wrinkled trousers suggests their owner slept in them. A badge is clipped to his belt, glinting under the tall floor lamp, and it provides Stiles with an explanation about the origin of the unmarked car's owner.

Stiles ignores the prompt to sit down.

“This is agent McCall,” the Sheriff says from behind him. “He's Scott's dad. I'm not sure if you remember him. He helped me with the search after your... disappearance.”

Stiles doesn't remember McCall at all, and he also doesn't really care. What catches his attention is the white mug on the coffee table. A steam of rich aroma hits his nose, and his mouth salivates with the need for caffeine. He's sure John brewed this one himself. It smells as deliciously as the one Stiles had in the morning.

John makes a sound at the back of his throat to recapture Stiles' attention. Stiles looks away from the coffee, straight to McCall. “Well, he didn't do much of a good job on that, did he?” he jibes.

“I see that the family who took you in have forgotten to raise you to respect your elders,” Agent McCall says icily.

In his peripheral vision Stiles sees Deputy Parrish shuffle around and sit on the couch. Wood creaks as the Sheriff does the same and plops down on a chair next to McCall. It leaves Stiles to be the last one standing. He crosses his arms over his chest and glares at the trio.

“I wonder what the Sheriff said to make my family look like child abductors.”

“He didn't have to tell me anything,” Agent McCall retorts easily.“This so-called family committed a crime when they withheld the information about your location, Mr. Stilinski.”

“Don't call me that.”

The corner of McCall's lip tugs up in a smug smirk. “I'm sorry. Call you what exactly?”

“Stilinski,” Stiles grits through his teeth.

The Sheriff snorts, and shoots Parrish a glance that says an infuriated, _'See?!'_

“What surname are you going by, then?” McCall asks, as if only wondering aloud, exquisitely employing Stiles' method of polite aggressiveness.

“No surname,” Stiles snaps. “Just Stiles.” 

The Agent smiles like a shark. Stiles has just done what he wanted, though Stiles doesn't see it yet. His mind is shrouded in a thick fog. He can't think farther than what is in the moment. McCall leans forward, lifting the coffee mug and taking a long sip. 

“Correct me if I'm wrong, Mr. Stiles,” he says mockingly, after the mug sits back on the table. “When you live in the United States, it's a common tradition for family members to share a surname in order to express a relation and promise to provide a stable home. The only reason I can think of considering your lack of a surname, is that this family of yours was aware of their crime, and thus kept you out of daily light and from the sight of law enforcement. Where did they hide you, if I may ask? In the attic or the basement?”

Stiles wants to grab a phone and call Master, hear his voice. He might in the process slam the phone against McCall's temple. The man has no idea what he's talking about, and he shouldn't pass judgement so easily. John tries to keep up a poker face but Stiles can see how pleased he is. McCall is venting all his thoughts without unnecessary emotions clouding his head. They must be anxious to be alone to pat themselves on the backs for how masterfully they handled this. 

“Neither,” Stiles says angrily. “And if you took time out of your busy schedule to actually search for me, you would have found me walking through the streets or grocery shopping in Walmart.”

“It's not that easy, Stiles,” John says.

“And isn't that just convenient for you, Sheriff.”

The chair rattles as John rears to his feet. He starts to walk out of the room but in the last second spins around, rubbing a hand over his face. He looks at Stiles like he wants to give him a good shake. “What the hell did they do to you?”

Stiles flinches in surprise at the fierceness of the tone. He didn't expect this.

“They had to do something to you, this isn't normal. What did they do? What the hell did they tell you about me?”

“Sheriff, maybe you should–” Parrish starts.

John doesn't seem to hear him, or chooses not to. “I've tried to be patient, but you act like I'm a stranger to you, like the first ten years of your life never happened. What did they do to you?”

Stiles' ears are ringing. High-pitched laughter pushes against his brain like it wants to crawl through, loud and too real. He glances around the room to make sure it's just an echo of a memory and the woman isn't here with them. 

“Stiles!” The Sheriff stares at him like Stiles is in need of a shrink. “Are you even listening to me? They had to tell you something to manipulate you. What did they tell you? That I didn't love you? That I wasn't looking for you? That I was dead?”

She is dead. Master killed her. He owes the man his life, and Master would never lie to him. He saved Stiles. 

The floor lamp emits a delicate glow, illuminating John's face and softening his features taut with desperation. It makes him look younger than his years. Stiles sees the same face looming over him to blow over his bruise. But this time, and he has no idea why or how, he feels it, experiences it like the memory happened only seconds ago. The sun is kissing his red cheeks, and he hears Dad's rich laugh, he feels contentment when Dad's eyes crinkle at the corners. The color of the ocean blending into sky. 

For a second, he feels pain from the bruise and a wave of peaceful happiness from being important to someone that much; a grounding kiss of love. 

For a fleeting second, he remembers how it feels to have a home. 

“Damn it, Stiles! At least look at me when I talk to you!” 

Stiles blinks John's face into focus. He's closer than he was a moment ago. And angry. So angry. “You keep spacing out. You act like you hate me. What did they do to you! _Answer me!”_

Stiles opens his mouth but instead of words, he releases a sick wheezing sound as his lungs constrict. His eyes widen in fear. The shadows around them darken, as if a wraith was lurking in the corner, eager to play with his mind. 

John curses under his breath. He curls his fingers around Stiles' biceps. It should make him want to recoil, to shake off the unwanted touch, but he leans into it instead. When John orders to look at him, Stiles raises his eyes to meet John's ocean blue. “It's okay, son. I'm sorry for yelling at you. Everything's alright,” the Sheriff says shakily. “Can you breathe?”

Stiles tries but fails. His lungs won't expand, and when he opens his mouth to say something, he just keeps releasing these wheezing sounds. He shakes his head in panic. 

“It's alright,” John says, “we can do it. Count for me, okay? In your head, from ten to one.”

Stiles loses himself in the endless blue while he counts down, and John never even blinks. He's like the single stable center of an out of control, madly spinning universe. It's the first time Stiles sees him this focused (not dulled by alcohol, not angry or too afraid to breathe in case Stiles bolts, not muted by an emotionless memory), and before he even realizes it, he's counted down to one and sucks in a relieving gulp of air. 

John gives him a pleased smile, like Stiles did a good job. He clamps his palm around Stiles' cheek, a gentle thumb wiping the single hot tear that managed to escape.

“Nice teamwork, huh?”

Stiles stares at him, his mouth falling slack. The frail memory is locked inside his head forever. Gaining razor-sharp edges and almost tangible feelings, it no longer has an artificial movie-like quality. It's incredible and terrifying, and Stiles doesn't know what the hell to do with it.

“I would advise you to be careful, Sheriff,” McCall's voice booms in the room's stillness like a grenade. “Don't get blinded by sentiment. The boy is clearly unstable.”

Stiles jerks away from John's touch, and the hands holding him drop down with a heavy reluctance. Stiles' hair sticks to his forehead where it carries a fine sheen of sweat. His hands start trembling, so he thrusts them into the pockets.

Parrish stands up. Stiles starts at the sudden movement. He forgot the Deputy was still here. “Agent McCall,” Parrish says, with a hint of steel in his voice, “maybe it would be best if I accompanied you back to your hotel.”

McCall glowers at Stiles, but this time Stiles doesn't have the urge to push back. He's weak in the legs, and his stomach rolls. McCall can go screw himself. He finds a single point for his concentration and ignores McCall's presence (lamp, the lamp is good, and maybe if he stares long enough, it will blind him so he won't have to struggle in deciding what's real and what's not).

“Why call me when you don't want to have this seen through?” he hears the Agent's voice.

“I called you yesterday to let you know that Stiles was found,” the Sheriff says. “I didn't expect you to drive over the state all the way to my house. I thank you for that, but there's no need for you anymore. I have it under control.”

“I can see you have it under control,” McCall sneers. 

Stiles glares into the lamp, hoping to lose himself in the glistening light. “I'm grateful for all your help,” he hears the Sheriff say forcefully, “but from this point on I will deal with everything on my own.”

McCall scoffs. “Do as you deem best, Sheriff. It's your life.” He walks around the lamp, throwing Stiles off concentration. He blinks away the big bright spots swimming in his vision. McCall stops at the doorway, glancing back at them over his shoulder. “I contacted Melissa. The DNA results should be in tonight. I'm sure she will contact you. And if everything goes well, tomorrow I will fill out the necessary paperwork to close your son's case. I will keep you updated, so you don't have to worry about it on top of everything.”

“Thanks, Rafael,” the Sheriff mutters.

McCall gives him a brief nod before leaving. Stiles hears the motor of the agent's car coming to life before the tires squeal as he takes off down the driveway. 

Parrish fishes out a phone from his pocket. “I'll head back to the station to let them know Stiles is back, if you don't need me for anything else, Sheriff?”

“No,” John says. “Thank you, Jordan.”

With one last look at Stiles, the Deputy departs as well, leaving them alone. Stiles gives the Sheriff a sideways glance. “You really were looking for me?”

“Scott texted me that you'll be back in the afternoon.” John gives him a rueful smile. “When you didn’t return and Scott had no idea where you could be, I panicked. It was a quiet day at the station so I had Parrish and two other officers help me search for you. We didn't need to, though, because you came back to me. Again.”

Stiles didn't do it for the Sheriff. He did it for his assignment. The following silence is like a bottomless pit, needing to be filled with words, sounds, but Stiles doesn't have any to throw in. He's grateful when the Sheriff breaks it.

“There's a baseball match on TV. Do you want to watch?”

It's not that Stiles wants to, but he has no idea how else they would spend the time. If they both stayed downstairs without anything to occupy them, Stiles is sure that every second would last twice as long, Retreating to his bedroom doesn't even cross his mind, and he can't dismiss the possibility that he just doesn't want to be alone. So he says, “Sure.” 

He toes off his boots and slides on the couch, hugging his arms around his knees. He observes John as the man sits down on the other side of the couch, keeping a careful distance, and switches on the TV.

They watch in silence. It's hard to remain still and not to twitch while the refreshed memory from his childhood keeps rolling across his brain like a tumbleweed in the wind. After several minutes of watching the players score runs and crowds go crazy in reaction, Stiles' body finally relaxes. He lets go of everything and immerses himself in the game. He's never watched baseball before; he had no idea it could be this interesting. 

John stands up at one point, retrieving a beer from the kitchen. Stiles doesn't comment on it, though he does give the Sheriff a half-hearted glare. It must be enough. The bottle stays untouched on the coffee table for the rest of the game. 

To occupy himself from wanting a drink, John starts to talk over the commentator, explaining to Stiles the rules and briefing him on a history of baseball team nicknames, which team is best and which teams some people from the station are fans of, because those know-it-alls have no idea what's good in life. He's quite passionate about it, and he doesn't wait for Stiles to react. He just keeps on talking. Stiles shuffles a bit to find a comfortable position, and sinks further into the cushions. He watches John through the slits of his drooping eyes.

During a commercial break, John's phone vibrates with a new message. Stiles tenses. He's not even sure why. It's not like he doesn't know what it's gonna say, but his breath hitches in anticipation as John reads the text, anyway. For a long moment, John doesn't give any indication of the text's nature. 

Eventually, a soft, content smile grazes his lips, like something clicked right in place and he finally has what he's been craving. Like maybe, the world has started to mend itself. 

“It's a match.”

It's like the gates open and release the flood. John's face quickly dampens as trickles of water run down his cheeks, collecting in the dip of his jaw before dripping down. Stiles exhales, and it's so incredibly stupid, because they both knew they were father and son, and just like John said, he didn't need any goddamn test to prove it to him. And Stiles doesn't even care. He has his family elsewhere. A family who loves him and would never betray him. He doesn't like John. The man is nothing to him.

Stiles turns his head back to watch the rest of the game. 

 

He spends the next couple of days in a haze. He's used to that, though. On a job, time usually comes to him in waves of events rather than in a single stream of hours and minutes. The events are what counts, like in movies. If all the director showed the viewers were scenes of the hero waking up, having breakfast, then going for a walk before spending all day long doing mundane things, even the hard-sworn fans would tire of watching. The best plots consist of events which either help to move the story forward or turn its direction. The rest is unimportant, and Stiles' minds floats through it, entertaining itself by wandering and daydreaming.

He spends most of the time with Scott, who is warming up to him more and more everyday. He introduces Stiles to PS4. “You've never– _Dude!_ ” he exclaims, horrified, when Stiles tells him he's never played a video game while at his new family, making Stiles feel half irritated, half amused. 

He remembers playing playstation with Scott when they were kids. He loved it then, the hours they spent plunged into fantasy worlds where they became heroes, where they could do anything. Scott could have run miles and miles without losing his breath and Stiles found an outlet for his hyperactive mind. 

Now, though, when Scott puts in Mario, Stiles finds himself getting bored quite quickly. Games are for kids, and he hasn't been a kid for a long time. He proposes a movie instead, which for a change bores Scott out of his mind, but in an attempt to follow up with their friendship where they left it years ago, he tries hard not to let it show. Stiles chokes back a laugh at Scott's tortured grimace when he proposes to watch _Breakfast Club_ next.

Overall, his interactions with Scott remain unimportant to Stiles as he doesn't learn any useful information on Scott's pack. It almost looks like Scott is afraid to unload too much on Stiles. He keeps reappearing on his own, and most of the time they spend the afternoons inside. Stiles' mind considers these encounters as unimportant and often strays away. If Scott notices, he doesn't comment on it.

Expectedly, the most strenuous moments prove to be the evenings spent with the Sheriff. During the day Stiles either closes himself in the room with Scott, or on a school day, he goes jogging along the forest or roams around the town on his own. He expects every minute he spends with the Sheriff to be reminded about the compulsory education for everyone under eighteen, but thankfully so far John has been holding back. 

In the evenings, John always seems to pop out of nowhere to lure Stiles into the house. Stiles starts to suspect the whole town of aiding the Sheriff to spy on him and keep him informed about Stiles' whereabouts. 

When at the end of the day Stiles is locked in the house without an escape route, John is on his best behavior. He doesn't drink, and he tries to be so tentative, at most attempting for a small talk, asking Stiles about his day. “How is Scott? Are you two getting along fine?” or “What did you do?”.

He never mentions Stiles' panic attack, but he behaves like Stiles is something fragile that can shatter any moment, so he has to tiptoe around him like around a timebomb. On these evenings, McCall's words echo in Stiles' head. _The boy is clearly unstable._

On these evenings, Stiles wants to set his spark free in an explosion of thunders and pain.

 

He finds a payphone and calls Master to let him know he's settled about two weeks into his job. Stiles usually contacts him when he's made a noticeable progress but right now, he feels like he'll go crazy if he doesn't hear his voice.

“How is he treating you?”

Stiles huffs. “Always straight to the point, huh? No 'How are you?' Or 'I miss you.' You break my heart, you know it?” 

“If I said that now, would it satisfy you even though it was you putting words in my mouth?”

A valid, though absolutely unnecessary point. Stiles pokes at the Yellow Pages hanging off the rack. “Sheriff's alright for now,” he grumbles. “We haven't talked much since the beginning. I think he's afraid to say anything in case I snap and run.”

There's a pause on the other end of the line. Stiles licks his lips nervously. 

“How do you feel?”

Well, at least to this question, Stiles knows the answer. “Angry,” he says immediately. Then pauses, deciding whether to go for full honesty. But Master is always able to tell when Stiles so much as omits the details, and he's easily displeased by it. It's better to be upfront. So he mutters, “at least most of the time.”

“And other times?”

Stiles shrugs even though Master can't see him. “I don't know. Confused?”

He hears a sigh. “Stiles.”

“I know, okay?!” Stiles spits out. He's not a damn rookie, he knows what he's doing. He swipes a hand through his messy hair in frustration. “It's just–he keeps being so nice to me and-and–there was this one time when I remembered something from the past. Well, not remembered, exactly, it was always in my head, but like, muted and shit. Like it didn't happen to me. Then I had a panic attack and–”

“You had a panic attack?” Master interrupts him, his voice getting a worried edge. “Are you fine? How did it happen?”

“I'm fine. It doesn't really matter how it happened. You know me, I'm a naturally crazy person,” he jokes, but his voice cracks at the end. “Sheriff helped me snap out of it...”

Master sighs, even louder this time, but he's still trying to be patient for his sake, Stiles can appreciate that. Normally he's a pretty impatient guy. “Do you remember what you told me when I found you?”

Stiles gnaws on his bottom lip. He glances outside the booth through the smudged glass plates. Two small children come running from the other side of the road. They stop, giggling loudly while they wait for their parents to reach them. Their mom pets them on the heads and gestures for them to continue running to the end of the street.

“Stiles.”

Stiles tears his eyes away from the family. “... I remember.”

“Then don't forget it.”

Master has always taken care of him. He's been with Stiles when no one else has. This is the last job, and he can't let it fall apart. “Yes, sir.”

“Now tell me more. Have you made contact with the target?”

Stiles snaps back to business. It's why he's here, after all. “Not yet. Not directly anyway. I identified some members of the Hale pack we didn't know about, though. Maybe I can have my in through them.”

“How many have you identified?”

“There's this teenage boy, Jackson. He doesn't look like Omega, so he has to be part of the pack... and...”

“And?”

Stiles clenches his free palm in a fist. He can't say it. Why can't he say it? “And… uh, one of his friends from school. I don't know the name.”

Master stays quiet for a long time. Stiles closes his eyes. He screwed up so badly. Why didn't he tell him that Scott is a werewolf? What does it even matter! If Scott behaves according to the rules, he's in no danger from The Organization or the hunters. Stiles lied such an obvious blatant lie, without any reason whatsoever behind it, and he's gonna get himself in so much trouble for it.

“What about your childhood friend?” Master eventually speaks. Stiles' stomach shifts uneasily. “Is there a chance he's friends with them? He could introduce you.”

Stiles' body sags against the booth wall. To call what he feels relief would be a hard understatement. “Scott knows one of them, but I'm not sure. He keeps visiting me everyday but so far we haven't made much progress. We usually stay in. I think he's trying to help me get used to living here as slowly as possible. He probably thinks it's gonna freak me out to meet too many people at once.”

“And why do you think that is?” Master asks in that tone of his that suggests he himself has a good idea why, but he wants Stiles to come to the same conclusion on his own. Stiles thinks back to his interactions with Scott and to the interactions to which Scott was a witness.

“I haven't been giving him much indications of, uh, warming up to people.”

“And people, you mean him and your–”

“Don't say it,” Stiles snaps.

Master chuckles. “Sorry, kid. But you realize what you have to do now, don't you?”

“Doesn't mean I have to like it.”

“It's job, Stiles. I know this is hard on you, and it's unfair to ask you of that, but this is the last one, I promise. We can take our break after, go anywhere you want.”

“Anywhere?”

“Absolutely,” Master says. “Wherever and for however long you'll wish. But for that, we need to finish this job first. And to accomplish this job...”

“I need them to believe that I can become part of this town,” Stiles sighs. “That I can be Stilinski, the Sheriff's son.”

The words taste bitter on his tongue. Stiles pauses after that, giving Master a chance to–he's not even sure what. To apologize? He knows that will never happen. And it stings.

“I gotta go,” he says.

“Be careful, Stiles. You're trying for something no one has succeeded in. You have to be two steps ahead all the time and never let your guard down.”

“I'll contact you again when I make some actual progress,” Stiles finishes without granting Master a possibility to reply. After hanging up, he thumps his forehead against the wall, fogging up the cool window with exhales. What the hell is wrong with him? First he loses it in front of the Sheriff and two complete strangers, and then he starts withholding possibly vital information? 

“Get your head straight,” he mutters to himself, and scrambles out of the booth.

 

He crosses the distance to the warehouse in record time. Reaching the top of the crate pile, he peers through the high window. Magic squirms alive under his skin, which has felt too tight for too long. Stiles lets a current of energy run through his fingertips, gently brushing them across the window. Under his touch, a web of tiny cracks spills out, like a spreading frost, until the glass shatters. Stiles crawls through the now empty frame and on the other side climbs down a construction of girders erected along the wall. 

He lands on his feet with a loud _thud_ , causing a plume of dust to twirl around him. He makes his way in the middle and sinks into a cross-legged position, closing his eyes. From then on, he's driven by pure instinct, rooted deep and naturally as trees reach into the ground. It's the only moment his mind is able to slow down, when his restless body succumbs into absolute stillness.

He inhales the cold air and releases it in a deep exhale. His spark dances through his core excitedly in a crazed rhythm. It darts forward, bouncing back off his ribcage. There isn't enough force behind the swing to break through. Stiles takes another deep breath. On its release, the spark swings back and forth again, speeding up and forcing Stiles to arch his back as it escalates in strength to get through the barrier of flesh and bones.

He and his spark are one, even though Stiles tends to think of it as a different entity residing inside his body. When they do this strange little dance, a part of him is literally ripped out and there's no way he won't feel the physical effect of that. He can't be sure if this ritual is safe or will have a permanent impact on his health, because he's the only one in The Organization who's able to split himself and his magic. Who knows, he could just be the only one who's ever tried, as only an insane person would want to leave themselves vulnerable just to meet with their magic. In the moment of physical separation, Stiles is as dangerous as a butterfly in a harsh wind.

With each breath, the spark gains in vigor. The air around him thickens, pressing against Stiles' eyelids. At first, it feels like he's having a panic attack. His insides constrict, his hands are clammy with sweat, but instead of his heart hammering in his chest, the regular beats slowly plod as if worn out by the extension. 

The spark bangs madly against his ribcage like it's playing the drums. The time between heartbeats becomes more pronounced, while the intervals of the spark shooting forward shorten. Stiles' body tenses with cramps. It's as if he's paralyzed. He can't move a finger. He's close.

He exhales for the last time. The world stops.

The dust particles hang in the air, glittering in the light pouring from the ceiling and winking at him. Stiles' eyes flash a bright white as he opens them. His mouth falls open in relief when he feels the calmness wrap around his mind, while his body falls into a numb ease. 

The spark hovers in front of him, a tiny ball of sizzling silver energy. Stiles stares into the core of his own magic, and it never ceases to amaze him how something so powerful can look this fragile, as if a small nudge would hurt it beyond repair. 

It keeps blinking at him owlishly, like a child lead into the outside world for the first time. It's shy every time Stiles lets it out, even though it should remember they've done this before. But it's still small, Stiles reminds himself. In time, it will grow in strength and intensity as it gains more confidence. As Stiles gains more confidence. 

For now, it needs his reassurance. That it's taken care of and that it's loved. That it's not alone in the world.

The spark hums pitifully and draws closer to him.

“Don't ever leave me,” he whispers. 

It's warm, buzzing with love and symbolizing everything that's good in Stiles' life. It's possibly the most dazzling thing Stiles has ever had the privilege to see. It slides down and stops in front of his chest, tickling him with gentle energy prods through the hoodie. 

“Already?”

It shines brightly, before it draws back and shoots forward into his chest. Stiles' spine curves strenuously when his body soaks up the spark. A soothing heat spreads through his chest and into his limbs. He feels the power of his magic returning back in full force. 

Those scared spark-users, magicians, or emissaries, or however they want to call themselves… This is why they can never compete to Stiles' powers. They think about their sparks as tools, a means to an end. They don't realize how much potential the magic can have if accepted as one half of a whole. 

 

With his head full of straying thoughts, Stiles becomes lost several times on his way to Scott's work and has to ask directions from a woman at a bus stop. Her eyes sweep over his piercings with badly contained disdain but she at least tries to put on a polite expression. Stiles finds the clinic quickly after that. He knows Scott will finish in just a couple of minutes, and because he would rather not meet with Deaton any time soon, he sits down on the curb outside the clinic. 

He feels refreshed after his visit to the warehouse, lighter and ecstatic. He runs his left hand over the sidewalk and lets his magic zip from his fingertips to nudge little stones, rolling them away. His spark flutters happily.

A wind blows past him and Stiles shivers in the cold. The temperatures must have dropped several degrees lower since he's arrived in Beacon Hills. The crisp air bites his cheeks, coloring them pink. He's wearing his only other hoodie. It's black, thicker than the red one, zipped all the way up to his chin, but it's still not well suited for the upcoming winter months. 

The prospect of buying a warm jacket rubs against his brain like a purring cat, and Stiles thinks back to the stash of money in his backpack, hidden under the bed in his bedroom. The thought of using it sounds sinfully good, but he saved the money for cases of life-threatening emergencies, or if he finds himself in the need to buy some magical tools to finish his assignment. He didn't save it to buy clothes.

Feet thunder to the exit, as if there's a horse race happening inside the clinic, and Scott throws the door open like he expected someone to be leaning on it from the other side and he hoped to smash them. His angry expression matches his stride. 

Stiles stops zipping the stones and stands up. He has to fight not to grin madly, because Scott is not alone, and this could just be his luckiest day.

With his rugged looks, Derek Hale could easily become a movie star. Stiles knew this when he first saw the werewolf in photographs provided by The Organization, but everything is better experienced in person. Derek is tall and broad-shouldered, with thick hair black as a raven. The leather jacket and tight fitting jeans highlight his muscled build. 

His heavy brows furrow in confusion when he spots Stiles.

Scott doesn't notice Stiles at first, barreling on angrily, “You have to stop pressuring me, dude. I told you I can't come tonight, I have a– _Stiles!_ ”

“Hey, Scott,” Stiles says. “Who's your friend?”

Scott waves his hand dismissively in Derek's direction. “That's not a friend, that's just a Derek.”

Derek scowls at Scott. “I don't care if you have a meeting with the Pope, Scott. You took the oath so our business is also your business. Be in the loft. On time.”

He storms away without giving Stiles a second glance. Well, that was a pretty fast interaction. “Nice to meet you too, Derek!” he shouts at the retreating back. Derek pauses for a fleeting second, before he proceeds to walk.

Stiles gives Scott a wry smile. “Ain't he a ball of sunshine.”

Scott snorts out a laugh, his anger promptly dissolving. “He's not much into socializing. Just ignore him.” He takes Stiles around the shoulders and steers him in the opposite direction Derek is heading. “My car is behind the clinic,” he explains. “How did you get here, anyway? It's like miles from your house.”

“I walked.”

Scott gives him a bemused look. “In just a hoodie? Are you crazy?”

“Do you really want an honest answer to that?” Stiles asks with a grin.

Scott snorts. “Probably not. Though to be honest, everyone's a bit crazy around here. You will fit right in.”

When they reach the car, Scott plays with the key in his hand instead of unlocking the doors. Stiles walks to the passenger side and patiently waits until Scott speaks what's on his mind. 

“So... Mr. Stilinski told me not to tell you, but we wanted to have a little celebration for you today, like a welcoming party. I think it's about time you had one. It's supposed to be a surprise but I thought maybe you'd like to know what you're getting into.”

“Who's we?” Stiles asks, a puff of frosty air rising from his lips.

“Uh… Me, your dad and my mom, obviously. Then we thought that maybe you're getting bored of seeing just our faces every day and you'd like to meet someone new. So I invited Isaac and Kira over. They're the closest people to me, and I would like it if you met them.”

It's on the tip of Stiles' tongue to reject when the conversation he had with Master replays in his head. He needs to make it look like he honestly wants to adjust to the life here in order for Scott to unconditionally trust him, even if it means attending a dumb welcoming party. 

“Yeah, sure. Why not,” he says, trying his best not to sound put upon.

Scott beams at him, finally unlocking the car doors. “You won't regret it, I promise.”

If Scott keeps up his promises like he apparently keeps his oaths, Stiles dreads what's in store for him tonight.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your support, guys! I'm adding a new tag with jealous!Derek which will come in a few chapters. Enjoy!

**THEN**

He trails behind Master unhappily, taking his sweet ass time. They pass several people on their way to the study, most standing in groups of three or four and talking in hushed urgent voices. Most of them are freelance hunters with their handlers, or the regular staff. At one point, Stiles sees a patch of wild white hair accompanied by a large pale face peeking through a protective barrier of hard-muscled black suits. Stiles hopes that his eyes are playing a trick on him, and it wasn't the wanted drug lord the evening news is so full of.

“Was that–”

“It doesn't matter, does it?” Master cuts him off.

It actually does matter. A lot. Stiles likes to pretend that since all his jobs end up with the bad guys killed off, it means that The Organization is, in the bigger picture, the good guy, despite its many faults. Why else would the missions be to hunt down wraiths, ghouls, evil covens, and rogue and manic werewolves? What about The Alpha Pack, or whatever the hell they called themselves, and their nutjob leader? Those definitely weren't cases of supernatural beings successfully integrated into civilized society, silently coexisting with mundane humans. Who knows how many would have died if The Organization didn't take care of them?

The patch of white hair makes its appearance again, the drug lord raising his head as Stiles and Master walk around. His eyes zero in on Stiles with unabashed curiosity. It means he's heard about Stiles, and just like everyone else, he's equally fascinated and wary. Good. He should be. Stiles doesn't like the occasional presences of freaking criminals, and he thinks that Master's reasoning that, “It's politics. We hunt the dirt, and who better knows the dirt than people living in it?” is bullshit. You can do it without them. And one day, Stiles will, when he and Master are free from the “politics”.

“And here we are again,” Master sighs.

Stiles snaps back to focus. They're in the ostentatiously decorated reception hall. Everywhere he turns, there is some gold or bronze ancient artifact. Old prints dominate the walls, giving a museum-like feel to it. Stiles hates the HQ, and he hates those presumptuous pricks waiting for them on the other side of the closed study door. The only thing making this experience bearable is the fact that despite the professional relations Master has with them (or maybe it's exactly because of them), his opinion on The Organization's members mirrors Stiles' own. He's just better at containing his antipathy.

“It makes you wonder how big the cleaning garrison here is to keep the place this spotless,” Stiles comments, frowning at his reflection in the giant wall mirror that, by the looks of it, must have cost more than a whole suburban house. He flicks the piercing in his right ear that Malia bought him for his last birthday. 

“Why do you still wear those? I hoped it was just a teenage phase,” Master says brusquely.

“Well technically, I'm still in my teen years. Seventeen now, eighteen next August.” Stiles heaves out a gusty sigh. “I can't seem to escape.”

“They look horrendous.”

“No. You think they look horrendous. I think they look badass.”

“You look like a member of a pubescent emo boy band.”

“Aren't you too old to know what emo means?”

Master snorts. “You keep saying that, but I'm not that old, you know.”

“I know,” Stiles winks at him. “You still have the drive, don't worry.”

Master rolls his eyes. 

Stiles feels someone glaring daggers into his back. He looks up in the mirror just in time to catch one of the two guards who stand at the study door glancing away. Stiles can't remember his name (not that it's of any importance) but he knows it's in his and his pal's job description to stand still at the door as if they were The Queen's Guard and inside was a royal family.

It has to get incredibly boring, just standing there without moving, and Stiles kind of pities them for getting stuck with this job, but not so much as to walk around them (when they're finally beckoned inside the study after what feels like hours) without jabbing the one who glared at him in his hard abs with a finger, just to see if he remains impassive.

He surprisingly does, though his eyes snap to Stiles in a promise of a future filled with pain and suffering. Stiles doesn't really care, and he gives the guard a sly grin of _'Bring it on.'_

“Stiles,” Master scolds him. 'Don't poke the dormant tiger,' goes unsaid.

“Whoops. Sorry.”

He jogs up to join Master in the study. As expected, they're the last ones to be let inside and everyone else is already present. The five leading members of The Organization are standing around the massive oak table, which is covered with papers, photos and maps. 

Malia is perched up on the window seat, her skirt riding provocatively high on her thighs. She looks bored out of her mind and as if this was the worst possible place she could have been in right now. 

Stiles can sympathize with that.

 

**NOW**

“You know,” Kira contemplates, “you're overall a really nice guy. I was a bit worried when Scott told me about you, that you can be a bit of an asshole if you–” She stops, her eyes growing wide. “I didn't mean to say asshole. Scott totally adores you and would never use the word asshole. And I didn't mean to repeat the word asshole either... Ah. I'm an idiot, sorry.”

Stiles pops one of the mini chocolate cakes from the coffee table into his mouth. He's not sure what to make of Scott's girlfriend, and honestly he's even less sure why he tries to make something of her. There's just something about Kira...

When she's not babbling, she can prove incredibly focused. She seems good at observing people, and the manner in which she handles the skewers is too assured to be random. And Stiles can't even believe he'd ever base a person's character on the way they handle their food, but at one point, she rolled the little sword on her knuckles like a coin. 

She curses softly. “You're not saying anything. I’ve offended you, haven't I? I really didn't mean anything by it. It was just a stupid slip of the tongue.”

She's not a werewolf, he would feel it. Maybe a stray hunter? Or maybe he's just overanalyzing everyone in Scott's vicinity. “It's fine. I have a hard time adapting sometimes. I guess I can be a bit of an asshole to people sometimes.” 

“I'm so sorry. Scott honestly didn't phrase it like that.” She laughs self-deprecatingly, glancing across the living room to where Scott is standing with Isaac, who's done a great job of ignoring Stiles so far, and the Deputy, who was invited in by Melissa (dragged in against his will) when he stopped by on his way home to give John some papers from the station. Kira was the first to talk to Stiles, and seeing as he hasn't bitten her head off in a whole hour, Scott must have felt secure to leave them on their own. 

“Normally I have more tact...”

“Really, don't worry about it,” Stiles says, “Scott has his own moments. You can't ever be worse than him.”

A crumpled napkin hits him in the nose. “I heard that!” 

“Scott! Napkins go in the bin, not on people.”

“Sorry, mom.”

Scott jogs over to them. He scoops to grab the napkin from the floor and sticks it in his pocket. “Having fun?” He puts his arm around Kira's shoulders, and she snuggles closer. 

“If by fun you mean Stiles being forced to put up with me insulting him every other sentence? Yeah… we're swell.” 

“I was actually having a good time,” Stiles says, putting another chocolate cake into his mouth.

“You're a masochist.”

He wiggles his eyebrows, mouth full but with enough free space to open it and mumble, “Even on my good nights,” without bits of cake flying out.

Kira lets out a startled laugh. 

She reminds Stiles of Malia, which is strange. The two couldn't be further apart in their personalities. But still... Kira has a front that is different from what lies beneath, that is obvious. She hides a fierce intelligence and independence under a thick layer of kind-hearted sweetness. Malia is her exact opposite. A kind heart suffocating under burdens of her past, covered with a crust of crudeness and apathy. 

“God, these mini cakes taste like heaven, right? Mom never bakes them anymore.” Scott leans over Kira to snatch a chocolate cake from the coffee table. “Hey, Isaac, you have to try one of these!” he shouts over his shoulder. 

Isaac apologizes to the Deputy, and reluctantly joins them. He accepts the mini cake from Scott into an open palm, nibbling on it like he's afraid it's poisonous, before he finally picks up the courage to put the cake in his mouth. 

“It's... not bad.”

When they met at the front door, Stiles needed exactly one second in total to realize that Isaac is a douchebag, and it had nothing to do with the notebooks in his old room, really. Isaac has an air of casual self-possession about him that is painfully fake, and the scarf he's wearing is just too ridiculous to put into words. 

On top of it all, he's a werewolf, and barely hiding it. Stiles doesn't even need his magic to tell him that, considering how Isaac seems to be scratching the fine line between sane and feral all the time. Someone should teach him basic self-control, or one day he's going to endanger innocent people, and it's going to be Stiles' job to put him down. 

“See? I told you,” Scott says.

“Yeah, yeah,” Isaac shushes him. He doesn't spare Stiles a glance when he asks, “So when can we leave?” 

He wouldn't be more subtle if he spat, “I have a problem with you.” into Stiles’ face.

“So, the scarf,” Stiles says, forcing Isaac to acknowledge his presence. “What's the deal? Are you in a boy band? Is it a fashion statement?”

The look Isaac gives him suggests he has no idea where Stiles is coming from. “It's just a scarf.”

“It's 70 degrees.”

“It's cold outside.”

“Then it's a good thing you're indoors, isn't it?”

Isaac bares his teeth, a soft growl vibrating through his chest. 

Kira clears her throat, pushing herself to stand between them. “Hey, Isaac, can you show me in the kitchen where the glasses are?”

“Top cupboard above the sink. Mr. Stilinski can show you.”

She grips his bicep, forcing him to break the eye contact he's so vehemently established with Stiles. “He's talking with Melissa now, and I don't want to disturb him.”

“Stiles can show you. It's his home, after all.”

“I want you to show me, Isaac.”

Isaac grunts in irritation but lets himself be dragged away. Scott gives Stiles an apologetic smile, scratching the back of his neck. “Sorry. He was being a douchebag. Normally he's pretty mellow.”

Stiles can't imagine a werewolf being described as “mellow” in any universe, but truth be told, before reuniting with Scott, he couldn't imagine ever comparing a werewolf to an eager little puppy either. Now he does it quite regularly whenever Scott turns those huge brown eyes to him. 

“You know what his problem is?”

Scott shakes his head after a minute hesitation, meaning he has a rather clear picture but won't share it with Stiles for whatever reason. “No idea, bro. Just give him some time. For me, please? I want you two to get along.”

Stiles doesn't need Isaac to become his best buddy, and Scott's round pleading eyes won't change that. He's about to say so, when the conversation he had with Master replies in his head. Stiles needs Scott's trust. Belligerence won't help him accomplish that. 

“Yeah, okay,” he relents. 

It works like a miracle. Scott gives him a crushing hug and a wide grin before trotting to the kitchen. “I'll talk to him. He can be awesome if he lets you in.”

Stiles is left speechless after the unexpected form of contact, and feeling all kinds of awkward. He hugs himself and glares at the plate with mini cakes. He's experienced more hugs and touches in the past week than in the last several years, and honestly? It freaks him out.

“Are you okay?”

A thrill runs down his spine at the familiar voice breathing by his ear. He turns to Parrish standing just inches behind him. “Sure. Nothing's wrong. Everything's peachy and dandy. And I mean like yin and yang shit dandy. I'm in absolute zen.”

Parrish chuckles. His Deputy uniform is stripped of the jacket, and the top buttons of his shirt are popped open, giving him a relaxed appearance. “That's good to hear.” 

He's holding a glass of red wine and raises it to his lips. When he lowers it, Stiles takes the opportunity to gently pull the glass from Parrish's unresisting fingers, and takes a swallow as well. The Deputy bites on his lip and shoots a worried look in John's direction, but the man isn't paying attention to anything other than what comes out of Melissa's mouth, listening keenly to whatever she's telling him.

“What? Are you worried because I'm not of age?” Stiles asks mockingly. “You should have seen me celebrating my last birthday.” 

“Your dad wasn't there to witness it, though,” Parrish objects.

Stiles takes another sip, licking the taste from his upper lip. “Not this one, no. But the other was.”

“Then he couldn't have been a very good dad, if he let you.”

“Or maybe he realized there are worse problems in the world than occasional underage drinking.”

Parrish takes the glass back from Stiles' loose hold. “Parents don't usually worry about the rest of the world when it comes to their children.”

“And how would you know?”

Parrish smirks. “Ouch.”

A heavy silence settles over them. Stiles crosses his arms over his chest, shuffling his feet on the floor. “Sorry,” he offers reluctantly, thinking about how Kira described him just moments ago.

“It's okay,” Parrish says nonchalantly, like he honestly doesn't care. “Besides, to have kids I would need a girlfriend first, and I don't see that happening anytime soon.”

“Let me guess. Your work is your lover.”

He grins. “Something like that.”

“You probably wouldn't believe me if I said that I know what you mean, and that I get it.”

“I actually would.”

Stiles' heart races twice as fast, and a knot forms in his throat. He takes the glass from Parrish's hand again, and downs the rest of the wine. 

“How are you settling in?”

Stiles raises his eyes. “Since the last time we saw each other? I guess fine.”

Parrish must hear the insincerity in his voice, because he replies with, “The Sheriff is trying, Stiles, you have to know that. Whatever issues are between you two, and I know it's none of my business, but, just please, give it time. I can assure you that you won't regret it. During the years I've worked at the station, I've never seen your dad like this. It's like a miracle.”

A sarcastic reply is on the tip of his tongue, when the rest of what the Deputy said sinks in. “What do you mean, never seen him like this?”

“I mean,” Parrish says with a smile, “that he's alive. Please, don't ever tell him this, but he was always atired, empty shell of a man. Since your arrival… Well, let's say you fight him and you are stubborn as hell, but you are here and that's what counts. You know he cracked a joke today? The whole station couldn't stop laughing. He loves you, Stiles. You are his spark and you breathe life into him.”

“I'm not his spark,” Stiles says, tongue heavy in his mouth, throat dry and burning. ”I'm no one's spark, and certainly not his.”

Parrish watches him with a frown laced with something resembling pity. Or disappointment? No, it's definitely pity, aka the least favorable emotion Stiles ever wants to see directed at him. “Maybe if you opened up a little bit, the people around here will surprise you.”

“As you said, Deputy, it really is none of your business,” Stiles says stiffly.

Parrish nods, the disappointment he feels reflected on his face. The front door rings, as if given a cue, to save Stiles from having to contribute to the awkward conversation. 

“Must be pizza,” John says, finally snapping his eyes away from Melissa's pretty face.

“I'll get it,” Stiles volunteers, hoping to put some distance between him and the Deputy, which Parrish promptly ruins by following Stiles with a poor excuse of helping him. 

“At least I can pay for it,” he mutters. “As a thanks to the Sheriff for inviting me.”

Stiles huffs. “Whatever.”

He opens the front door. 

And freezes when he sees the delivery boy.

_Well, fuck._

 

**THEN**

“Welcome.” 

Stiles has never bothered to remember the names of the five leading members, so he numbered them by the importance he learned by watching them interact with each other. Number One is a balding man with the most rat-like face Stiles has ever seen. The resemblance is equally absurd and disturbing. 

He tends to have the last word in decision-making, and everyone tiptoes around him in a show of respect. What Stiles finds most amusing is that even though the members officially look up to him for his opinion and wait for his approval, that approval often comes influenced by Number Two's words. 

She is the wiser one, but also the one with less direct power. Even though she doesn't seem to be bothered by having to bow to another, from time to time Stiles spots a furious gleam in her eyes. It's good to know that even these guys have their own issues.

“I was informed that you have another job for us, and this time truly the last one,” Master says, with his usual lack of pleasantries.

“That's correct,” Number One says.

“Even the “last job” part?” Stiles asks. “That's correct too? Because otherwise, it'd be a really shitty thing to summon us for nothing.”

“You should learn to show respect to your employers,” Number Five says scathingly, even though they are far from his employers. He's here for Master, not for them.

Stiles finds Five the least important and interesting of the five high members. He's only a couple years older than Stiles himself, but because he's rich as fuck and the only heir to some business corporation, he automatically got a leading spot in The Organization. It's probably true that money makes a difference. What's even sadder is that it's pretty evident no one likes him here and they tolerate him only for his bank account.

“You should learn to use a razor,” Stiles says with snark. “Is that a failed attempt at a goatee or did you play with fire and it backfired on you again?”

Malia snorts from her spot at the window.

Five hating Stiles' guts is nothing new, but only a month ago Stiles learned an actual reason behind the oftentimes unecesarry spite; Stiles snuck into the house to visit Malia, and during their quest to find booze, they stumbled upon Five trying to light a candle using his magic. Due to a lack of emotional control, his burst of anger ignited the candle in a blast of fire and burned his eyebrows. To this day, Stiles can smell the burnt hairs and skin and hear the panicked shriek of pain. To this day, when Five starts being an asshole, Stiles gleefully reminds him of that night.

Five has a spark, tinier than Stiles' and useless on all accounts. Stiles didn't even bother to explain to him that not everyone with a spark has a talent for magic, and thus not everyone with a spark can work magic. Five wouldn't listen. He's a self-centered prick who doesn't like Stiles because he can play with his toy while Five can't.

“This isn't a playground, so shut it, both of you,” Number Two says curtly. She's wearing a black pantsuit, with her hair tied high up on her head. The thin line of her mouth underlines her bad mood, and the retort building up in Five’s chest pops and deflates like a balloon. He won't interrupt when it's her who's speaking.

“You have our word,” she adds, “that after this job is finished, the contract between us will be fulfilled.”

“You said the same about the previous job,” Master reminds her. “What guarantee do we have that this time is different?”

“You don't,” Number One says, his mouth stretching into an impossibly wide toothy grin. “But honestly, my friend, what other choice do you have?”

Stiles would love to say that they have plenty, but he knows that as long as he stays with Master, there will never be another option. For whatever reason Master refuses to share with Stiles, he will never turn his back on The Organization until his contract is fulfilled. Stiles would really loved to see that stupid contract one day. 

Master never lets his emotions show, but even for him it's a stretch to remain passive in the face of such blatant disrespect. He balls the hand hidden behind his back into a fist. 

“So what's the job?” he asks in a carefully neutral voice.

Five crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the table. He eyes Stiles with badly concealed glee. “Aah… we discussed this beforehand, and I think you should first ask where the job is, not what.”

“Warrick, this isn't one of your silly games,” Number Two says. Warrick? How on Earth could Stiles forget that kind of name? Although, he really doesn't have anything to make fun of, considering his own birthname. 

Number Two turns to Stiles. “Believe me, even though you were our first and most logical choice, we sent others to carry out this assignment instead. A single hunter a year ago, and another pair consisting of a spark-user and a hunter four months ago. The first man turned up dead. We never found the other two.”

“Wow, you’re really selling the job,” Stiles mutters. “Why am I the most logical choice?”

“Because unlike the others, you come with a bulletproof background, and your presence in the town wouldn't raise as many red flags as the presence of a complete stranger. You wouldn't be a stranger to the environment.”

Call it a sixth, seventh or eighth sense, but Stiles simply knows where Two is heading with this. Malia multiplies that suspicion by thousands when she stops admiring her sharp polished nails to watch the interaction. She never pays attention during the meetings.

Stiles bites on the inside of his cheek. He feels trapped, like a defenseless hare with a snare wire around its neck. His spark agrees, and rubs restlessly against his ribcage. “Because I already was there,” he says weakly.

He feels Master's eyes on him, and slides his hands into his jacket's pockets to hide them as they shake ever so slightly.

He hears the snap of a photo being taken. Number Five–Warrick–is holding his phone, aiming it at Stiles with a malicious grin. “Sorry but your face right now? Just precious. It's going to make a great wallpaper.” 

Stiles wants to deck him. Or send just a tiny bit of his magic's energy up his ass and give him a taste of what an electric current can do to the body from inside. “Don't forget a tissue when you jerk off to it; you don't wanna stain the screen.”

“Don't forget who you're speaking to, you little brat,” Warrick hisses.

“I'm sorry, who am I speaking to? A broken record? Find a new catchphrase, Richie Rich.”

“You–”

“ _Enough_ ,” Master growls impatiently. “I don't care what issues you two have, cut it out. Before I make you cut it out.”

Warrick scoffs, but he doesn't say anything. Stiles seethes silently inside, though he can't do much else than to follow Warrick's suit. His eyes find Malia, who shrugs with a smirk. She's right. His attitude won't change a thing. It's best to listen and plan now, give way to his anger later.

“Now,” Master says, “tell us more about this job.”

Number One waits until he has everyone's undivided attention, and then motions to the table. Master walks up to it. He starts to go through the documents without further prompting, eyes skimming over the contents with a speed only Stiles can compare with. He stands behind Master's back and studies the papers over his shoulder. Three of them are high-resolution photographs, taken without the subject’s awareness.

On the first photo is a man around Master's age, with slicked back hair and shiny aviator sunglasses high on his nose. He's wearing a black button down and tight-fitting jeans, walking down a street while licking a pinkish ice cream cone.

Stiles gives Master a nudge and taps on the photo with a smirk. _See? Having ice cream doesn't make you look any less cool._

Master snorts quietly, so only Stiles can hear it. These moments make him feel privileged. He can't help it; it's as though he's the only one in the world who gets to see this hidden part of the man. His gaze strays to Malia, who rolls her eyes in exasperation, knowing him and what goes on inside his head too well.

“That's Peter Hale,” Number Four says. She's younger than Two, more laid-back and likable. Pretty hot, too. “According to our info, he's the Alpha of the Hale pack. On the second photo is his nephew and the First Beta, Derek Hale.”

Stiles' eyes sweep over the photo. It was taken in a supermarket, from behind an aisle with pastas. Derek Hale is pushing a cart around crates with vegetables, and with that huge scowl on his stubbled face he looks absurd and out of place. If Stiles were a middle-aged housewife, he would either drool over the guy's hotness or push his kids protectively behind his back. Being neither middle-aged nor a housewife, he just unabashedly drools.

“The other one is Alan Deaton,” Four continues. “Alan was–and it seems like he still acts as–the Emissary to the Hale family. Well, at least what remains of it,” she adds with a chuckle. The man in the photo stands in front of a veterinary clinic, looking slightly to the left of where the photographer is hiding. Stiles hopes for his sake that the photographer remained undetected, or Stiles' job and life could be in jeopardy as soon as he arrives at Beacon Hills. And he will do it. He will return to Beacon Hills. Master will take on this assignment, and what Master does, Stiles dives head-first into. 

“What happened to the rest of the Hale family?” Master asks.

“They died in a fire, right?” Stiles says. “I think I remember it. It happened around the time my… around the time I left the town.”

Master studies Stiles in his peripheral vision for a long, unnerving moment. 

“Yes,” Number Two says. “It was arson, and we have Kate Argent to thank for that. I suppose you are familiar with the Argent family?”

Master picks up a map with red crosses marking four different places. He nods without looking up. “Yes. And I also know that Kate Argent was a crazy bitch.”

Stiles' eyebrows shoot up. He's never heard Master talk this crudely about anyone.

Master lays the map back on the table for everyone to see. “What do these crosses mark?”

Number Two's finger slides over the map, from cross to cross. “This one marks what remained of the Hale house… This one is a loft apartment that we suspect is the Alpha's lair... The third one is the veterinary clinic where Alan resides. I would suggest you avoid that place. Alan shouldn't know about our plan, but he's always been awfully perspective... And this last one is Christopher Argent's house. He and his family moved to Beacon Hills two years ago. Right now it's just him and some child he adopted after his wife and only daughter died last year.”

“Kate and Gerard Argent?” Master asks.

“Dead.”

He nods. “Then the Argents aren't going to be a problem.”

“I wouldn't underestimate Chris,” Number Two says. “He may be alone right now, but he still has many connections. And, well, we both know what one lonely man is capable of. Isn't that right, Janson?”

Stiles' head snaps to Master. This is… He's ashamed to admit it, but this is the first time he's heard Master's name. Master refused to tell him the one time Stiles asked. Even though the reason sounded stupid to Stiles' young ears, he has never asked again. 

He can't believe that this woman, who's only interacted with them when it concerned a job... that this woman knows more about Master than Stiles does. And he hates her for it. He hates her and the hard expression she's put on Master's face with her poisonous words. 

The door to the study slams open and the guards rush inside with guns drawn out. Number One raises his hand in a halting gesture. They stop, but don't lower their weapons.

Stiles realizes that his magic started sizzling inside his chest, mixed with anger, spreading through each cell to the tips of his fingers, where it crackles with energy strong enough to kill. 

“Stiles, come one. Don't be an ass.”

Malia jumps down from the window seat, and takes Stiles' hand into hers, entwining their fingers. Her skin gets burned as she touches his fingertips, but she doesn't even hiss in pain. Stiles lets her hand anchor him. 

“Can we get to the point?” he spits, after he's calmed enough to trust himself to speak. “What did the alpha do? Are we supposed to kill him?”

Number Four grins like a Cheshire cat. “No. You are supposed to steal from him.”

 

**NOW**

The delivery boy is smacking his lips loudly as he chews vigorously on the gum in his mouth. He puts the pizza boxes into Stiles' arms before he can say anything. Stiles keeps hold of them without a conscious thought, uncomprehending how impudent and incredibly _stupid_ someone can be.

“I'm Warrick,” the guy introduces himself gleefully. As he opens his mouth, a peppermint flavor assaults Stiles' nostrils. “Your delivery boy from Joe's, the best italian pizza restaurant in town, enjoyable for both kids and grown-ups.”

He hands Parrish a receipt, and the Deputy fishes out his wallet from the back pocket of his trousers. “I've never heard of the place. Is it new?”

“Fairly. About a year or so. It's still a small place. With a home-feel to it, though.”

Warrick accepts the money from Parrish, counting the bills in his hands like a real delivery boy. “Great tip, thanks, bro.” Asshole. Stiles can only stand there dumbly, staring at Warrick with wide disbelieving eyes. What is he attempting to accomplish by showing up on the Sheriff's doorsteps? Is he so arrogant to honestly think he can do these things and not get caught? Is he here to taunt Stiles? Is he here to expose Stiles?

“Is there a problem, sir?” Warrick asks, blowing a green bubble.

Any other day Stiles would be ecstatic to have Warrick call him 'sir', but not now. Not here. His fingers clench on the boxes he's holding. “Not at all. I think I just confused you for an asshole I once knew.”

Parrish gives him a baffled look. Warrick gives him a fake smile. “Must be a coincidence, I don't think we've ever met. I'm sure I would have remembered someone like you.” 

Stiles shudders at the innuendo. What the hell is the guy up to? 

“And anyway,” Warrick continues brightly, “I haven't lived here for very long. My family is from LA, and I decided just recently to try my luck on my own, to shake off the chains, you know? Man, after a while, living with your neurotic old man just gets tedious.” He sighs for effect. “But I'm still flying to visit them next week. It can be a little sad when you live alone, and the neighbourhood I live in… let's say it's not the most welcoming part of town.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows. He would never peg Warrick for being such a convincing actor. “Where do you live?” 

“Downtown. Next to that incredibly loud night club. Jungle, I think it's called? I mean, I'm not my old man by any means, but I still like my sleep regular, you know. But anyway, I should go. There's more people waiting to be fed. Great chat, guys. If you ever have business downtown, stop for a visit.”

Stiles shakes his head at the immense arrogance this guy so casually possesses, although as Warrick leaves, followed by a trail of peppermint scent, and Stiles' stress levels drop back down to normal, the feeling that blankets him swings over to amusement rather than fear. Still, if Warrick wanted to get Stiles to privately talk to him, he could have just ambushed him when Stiles was alone, not prepare a big theatrical performance. What the hell happened to the real delivery guy? Stiles will have to ask Warrick about it, when he pays him a visit. He's pretty sure the pizza guy is fine, but it's still better to check.

“Interesting guy...” Parrish comments.

Stiles snorts. “I don't know, seemed kind of dumb to me.”

Parrish doesn't reply, and they take the pizza boxes into the kitchen, where Scott stands in a semi-circle with Kira and Isaac, and is currently shouting into his phone.

“No, I don't give a damn! I told you that I've got something more important today.” 

A low growl sounds from the phone. Ah, Scott must be talking to Derek, the brooding Beta. Scott doesn't seem fazed by the threatening and animalistic response, and moves the phone away from his ear, prepared to end the call, when Isaac grabs his hand in a tight urgent hold.

“Maybe we should go there, Scott. It feels wrong not to follow his orders.”

“Isaac is there with you?” Derek snarls from the phone. Isaac visibly cringes.

“No way, dude,” Scott says, ignoring Derek's voice. “I told Derek I didn't have time today. He has to deal with it.”

“ _Isaac._ ” 

That single word, uttered by Derek with chilling force, makes a shiver run down Stiles' spine. It's the same tone Master uses with him when he's displeased by something Stiles did. It always makes him want to bare his neck in submission. It's the only time he gives in. It's also strangely forceful for a Beta but it seems to work on Isaac.

Shoulders tense, he turns to Scott. “I'm going, Scott, you do whatever you want. You're my brother, but Derek is–” he shoots his eyes in Parrish and Stiles' direction, realizing they have been listening in to their conversation. 

“Enjoy your little party,” he snarls, and strides into the hallway to pick up his coat, his scarf flapping behind him.

“Sorry, just gimme a sec,” Scott says hastily, and shoves his phone into Stiles' hands without thinking, rushing out after Isaac.

“Scott, wait!” Kira calls after him. She gives Stiles a quick strained smile and goes after her boyfriend. 

“Scott? Scott! Put me on, goddammit.” The phone vibrates with every word hissed through.

Stiles puts the phone to his ear. “Hello,” he greets cheerily.

Parrish looks like he wants to say something, but he decides to remain silent, and starts opening the pizza boxes, trying hard to ignore Stiles and his antics.

There's a pause on the other side of the line. Then, “Who the hell is this?”

Stiles grins. “Aw, you don't remember me?” He imagines Derek's heavy eyebrows furrowing in concentration. 

“Stiles. If that is a name,” comes the curt reply. _Rude._

But Stiles is actually amazed Derek remembers his name, when their five-second interaction consisted of a frown and a noncommittal dismissal. 

“It is a name. And you are Derek. See? I have an excellent memory too.”

“Where's Scott?” Derek shoots, without any tact at all.

“He's run out after Isaac like a sick puppy, and I think Isaac is on his way to your place.”

Derek hesitates before he asks, “How much did you hear?” He says it nonchalantly enough, but with a strong undercurrent of a threat that Stiles better think about his reply or there might be nasty consequences. It doesn't move Stiles in the slightest.

“Not much. It sounded like you have a Friday book club, and Scott ditched you to throw a party for me. I'm afraid the analysis of _Gone Girl_ will have to wait until next week.”

Parrish snickers quietly. Stiles shoots him a blinding grin.

“A party?”

Derek seems to posses the rare ability to lack adornment to the point where most of the time he comes off as boorish. Just like Master, he ignores the unnecessary to get straight to the matter, leaving diplomacy to the amateurs. Stiles isn't sure if it's a good thing that Derek seems to be so much like Master; probably not. Master is the only person able to set Stiles in line.

“Yeah, dude. A welcoming party for my little self.”

“Why are they welcoming you?”

“Uh, because I was gone and now I'm back?”

He hears an exasperated huff, but before Derek can reply, Scott comes rushing back. “Sorry, bro. I swear that Isaac is usually much more–uhh, is that my phone?”

“You put it in my hands,” Stiles says, “I was keeping Derek company.”

Scott’s eyes widen comically. “Derek? He's still on?” He grabs the phone when Stiles nods. “Geez. Sorry about him.” Derek sure has a reputation. And Stiles can't wait to interact with him more. He loves annoying easily annoyed people.

“Hey, Derek?” Scott puts the phone to his ear and walks away towards the living room, all the while shooting Stiles apologetic glances.

Parrish hands Stiles a piece of the quattro formaggi pizza. At least Warrick did a good job of delivering the correct pizzas. He accepts it. The cheese melts deliciously on his tongue. 

“I'm sorry about before,” Parrish says. “I shouldn't have pressed.”

“Apology accepted,” Stiles replies instantly, because at the end of the day, it doesn't matter. A glint on the top shelf catches his eye. He puts the pizza aside, and raises on his toes to reach the high place. His hand comes down with a bottle of red wine. “Now,” he grins at Parrish, “shall we follow up where we left?”

“I meant it when I said it's not a good idea to drink in the Sheriff's presence, Stiles.”

“Because it's insensitive to drink in front of an alcoholic?”

Parrish's jaw clenches. “Your dad isn't an alcoholic. Never was. And if you bothered to notice, he's stopped drinking altogether since you came back.”

Stiles pulls out a corkscrew and stabs the cork, rotating it with a little extra force. “You know what? I don't think we should talk about the Sheriff. It just ends up with us pissed at each other.”

Once the bottle is opened, he curls his fingers around Parrish's wrist and drags him out into the garden through the backdoor. “Stiles–” the man protests.

“Let's make a pact of not discussing him ever again, and let's drink on it.”

It's cold outside, the night wind brisk and cruel to his uncovered skin. Stiles is clad only in a loose t-shirt, and his body starts shivering immediately. 

“It's too cold,” Parrish says, “come on. We should get back.”

Back means to the Sheriff. Back means to the people Stiles doesn't care about. Even though some traitorous part of his brain probably does, because it lied to Master, and Stiles never lies to him. Going back means having to think about that. Staying here means calm and quiet, despite the gusts of stinging air.

“No,” he says firmly, sitting down on a garden bench. When Parrish doesn't join him, he raises wide pleading eyes to him. “Just for a while, please? I need a quiet moment outside the house.”

Parrish huffs, but he sits down next to Stiles. Close, so their thighs brush. “You're insane, and a manipulative brat, you know it?”

Stiles grins, taking a gulp from the bottle before handing it over to Parrish. “We finally seem to agree on something, Deputy.”

“And barbaric. Such good wine isn't supposed to be drained from the bottle.”

Stiles shakes the bottle in front of Parrish's face. The red liquid sloshes inside. “Tastes like jug wine to me, anyway.”

“Unbelievable,” Parrish grouses, but his hand clasps around the bottle and he takes a swallow. “And it's Jordan.”

Stiles blinks. “Hm?”

“Call me Jordan. Deputy sounds wrong when drinking with someone underage.”

Stiles bats his eyelashes at him. “Okay, but only if you call me Stiles. I insist.”

“I call you– Nevermind.”

Stiles pets him on the leg. “You learn quickly, Jordan.”

Parrish huffs out a laugh. “It must be tough keeping up with you sometimes.”

That makes Stiles pause. The words weigh on his chest, even though they shouldn't. Even though they are just words, and words don't have any power. He blows out a sigh, softer than a whisper, hopefully one to be lost in the whooshing wind. “Yeah... sometimes.”

He tips his head back, and with excitement realizes that despite the wind, the charcoal sky is littered with bright specks. Millions and millions of brilliant, beautiful sparks, just like his own, winking at him, warming up his freezing heart. Stiles has never been able to read those stars, to point out which constellation is which. He would like to learn someday. To lie back with someone in an open field, to point above their head and to say: “See that formation? That's Andromeda.”

But for that, he would also need someone to show it to, and as he doesn't have anyone; it's not like it will ever happen.

He lifts his hand up, blindly reaching for the wine. When the Deputy's fingers won't let go, he looks at him in question. Parrish is watching him with a soft expression that Stiles can't quite name. “What?” he asks, chuckling nervously. He's not sure why, but his skin feels too tight suddenly, his thoughts oddly exposed under the studying look. 

“Nothing.” Parrish shakes his head, as if to get rid of some stray thoughts. He lets the bottle slide into Stiles' hand. 

They sit in silence after that, and Stiles is glad that the Deputy doesn't feel the need to fill it with pointless words. He looks back up at the sky, loosing the concept of time and space. The only constant point is Parrish's body, radiating heat at his side, and the occasional bump of a cold glass against his even colder fingers as he takes a sip. The alcohol buzzes pleasantly in his mind. It slows down his thoughts, mutes his fears, encourages his dreams.

They finish the wine around the time the Sheriff realizes Stiles and Parrish are nowhere to be seen, and sends Scott and Kira to find them. 

“I think he's afraid to confront you by himself,” Scott jokes, well, only half-jokes, when he and Kira squeeze in on the bench. 

“This is a no-talking-about-Sheriff zone, Scott. If you want in, you have to respect the rules.”

“Seriously?” Scott give him a bewildered look, then notices that Stiles' body is shaking with tremors. “Dude! Are you crazy? You don't have anything on.”

“I have my t-shirt on,” Stiles mutters.

“Are you kidding me?” 

“Wait here,” Kira says hastily, and stands up.

Scott doesn't seem to notice, staring at Stiles like he's an alien. Stiles looks purposefully away, pretending to ignore Scott, as childish as it might be. Scott turns to Parrish. “Are you kidding me?”

Parrish shrugs, trying his best not to look guilty. With his foot, he nudges the empty bottle farther under the bench, so Scott won't notice and have an excuse to add “giving him alcohol” on his list of things Parrish let Stiles manipulate him into. 

Scott scowls at him, because obviously his sensitive werewolf ears catch the soft clink of the glass. “I thought you're supposed to be the sensible one!”

“Scott,” Stiles sighs. “It's not a big deal. Drop it.”

“Not a–”

“Here!” Someone flings a heavy blanket over them. Kira leans down to wrap it around Stiles and cover the rest of them over their legs. “Better?”

“Um.” Stiles is left speechless. And what should he say? That it feels weird having someone fussing over him getting cold? That the last time Master tucked him in was five years ago? That he feels like shredding the blanket into pieces and burrowing into it at the same time?

In the end, he grunts a weak and pathetic, “Thanks.“


End file.
